


Resonance Effect

by wargoddess



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Awkward Boners, Crossover, Drama, F/F, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mage Cullen Rutherford, Masturbation, Misplaced Medievalism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Fanaticism, Secret Societies, Sex Pollen, Sexual Frustration, Slow Burn, Tsunderes, Weird Biology, Worldbuilding, pantsfeelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-17 09:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 79,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13655805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: The oppressive hand of the Chantry rests heavy on the Systems Alliance.  Aliens, and their dangerous ideas, are a barely-tolerated necessity. In the eyes of the faithful, human biotics are only marginally less dangerous -- but when a fanatical, headstrong Commander suddenly manifests biotic abilities, he has no choice but to rely upon a young, equally headstrong heretic for help. They'll either become a powerful team or kill each other... if the whole bloody galaxy doesn't kill them both, first.Basically: the Dragon Age characters in the Mass Effect 'verse, with some weird worldbuilding. Why? Because why not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Crossover crack. Probably more for DA fans than ME fans, largely because the Justice is a different frigate from the Normandy. The Normandy still exists in this continuity, but is off doing its own thing, so ME characters will only rarely show up, if ever. Probably not a lot of aliens, either, alas, since this version of the Systems Alliance is distinctly less friendly toward them. That said, I haven't thought this out all the way yet. Biotics are basically mages -- more powerful than biotics in ME, with a wider variety of abilities, and with a bigger weakness. But are there still darkspawn in this continuity? Who knows! Lyrium? Kinda! Thedas, not Earth, is the center of the Systems Alliance here -- so is there still an Earth? Haven't decided yet. Is Keran a given name or a family name? Hahaha come on, guys, this is just porn for stress relief. Don't overthink it.
> 
> I'm posting this as I write it, which is a thing I don't usually do, so no guarantees I'll finish. No guarantees it will make sense. No guarantees I'll post quickly. Just... no guarantees, OK?

     The fires still burn, somewhere amid the prefabricated buildings of Kanisa Colony. Thick smoke -- redolent of plasma fire, ozone, razed fields, and burnt flesh -- rolls between the buildings in steady gouts, reducing visibility to a dangerous degree. Cullen has lost two soldiers to this smoke, thanks to one particularly deadly sniper. That sniper is dead now, however, and they have won the day.

     He strides through the remains of the colony, omni-blade naked and vibrating in his hand, though he has racked the monomolecular shield on his back for the time being. Scans have confirmed all hostiles down; scouts are performing sweeps beyond the scan radius. There's no immediate danger. He's just holding the sword because it gives him something to focus on.

     The smell of smoke here is exactly the same as --

     Focus. Yes. The prisoners must be put to questioning.

     His comm buzzes, a private channel. "Were you going to report to me anytime soon, or should I knit a sweater while I wait?"

     Cullen sets his jaw, resigning himself for the umpteenth time to his captain's complete lack of decorum. "My apologies, Captain Anders. I'd hoped to have a complete report for you once the surviving slavers were interrogated."

     "Hmm. About that." Cullen braces himself. He knows what's coming. "I don't suppose you could manage to _not_ kill them, this time?"

     "Killing them is certainly not my intention, ser."

     "You said that last time."

     Cullen sets his jaw. "I was protecting my soldiers."

     " _You stabbed them through the face_ , Rutherford. That becomes difficult to explain when we get audited. 'Yes, Councilor Udina, of course we observe Council law on the humane treatment of prisoners! We only stabbed that _one_ slaver through the face. Well, and two or three others. One of them repeatedly. But it was an accident. Three times. Or six, if the repeated blows count.'"

     It is pointless to explain, Cullen knows, but he tries anyway. "Ocular flashbangs are usually embedded in the cheekbones, ser, and they remain active even after death. To ensure that the devices wouldn't go off during transport -- "

     "Yes, yes." Anders sounds weary, sighing into his comm. "I _understand_ , Commander Rutherford, truly I do, and I appreciate your caution. But sweet Maker, please consider appearances, will you? Sometimes the seeming of a thing matters more than its reality. Anders out."

     The comm goes quiet. "Very _well_ , serrah," Cullen mutters.

     And then he stops. This colony, tucked amid once-green hills that have been scorched black by landing burns, demands a moment of his contemplation. Whoever laid out the prefabs of the colony had an eye for both its growth and aesthetics. There's a neat central square for gatherings -- with a dance floor, looks like. Indigenous trees with glowing flowers line every walkway. Working habitats have been grouped along the valley floor, but dwellings are up in the hills, giving the colonists a lovely view of what they're building, every day. When Cullen stops at the edge of the path, he finds himself standing at a kind of scenic overlook. There are many boot-prints in this area, and the rectangular flattening of picnic blankets here and there on the wild grass. There's also a crude wooden railing here, more of a warning than any real protection from the rocky dropoff beyond this point, and Cullen sees that someone has carved their initials into the wood. It was a place of happiness once, and beauty. Now corrupted.

     _There is nothing left of me_ , he thinks. The thought is weary. _I have surely withered to nothing inside, if I cannot take even small comfort from saving these people._

     But he knows why that is: because he _hasn't_ saved them. They arrived too late for that. Half the colony was dead, the other half branded with control chips and herded into the hold of the slaver ship, before the _Justice_ 's guns disabled their launch capability. Now most of the slavers are dead and Cullen's soldiers are trying to provide what succor they can to the survivors. However, human colonies survive on a knife-edge of resources. With so many of its citizens dead, Kanisa Colony will be unable to maintain critical functions like power generation or defense. And they cannot advertise for new colonists who might make up the shortfall, because that will only spread the word that the colony is vulnerable. Every pirate, slaver, and merc syndiate in the Terminus Systems will come hunting for more easy prey.

     But that's not the immediate problem. There were _two_ slaver vessels. One of them, the smaller scout ship, escaped just as the _Justice_ arrived, with an estimated twenty-five colonists trapped aboard. Cullen knows too well exactly what those poor people are going through, right now.

     His comm crackles again; it's his lieutenant, Agatha. "We're ready for you, ser," she says.

     "On my way," he replies. Time to see to their prisoner.

     Agatha is talking to the man as Cullen comes into the prefab facility his soldiers have claimed as base camp. It was a lab, once. Shattered sampling tubes and broken analysis equipment crunch under Cullen's boots. He can hear Agatha's murmurs over this. " -- trying to help you," she says, with real urgency in her voice. "You've heard of my commander, you said. You know his reputation; he's death on your kind. If you just tell us where your scout ship is headed -- "

     Cullen steps into the room and she stops, throwing him a quick unreadable look. _Too late_ , he thinks. This thought is cold. There are three prisoners, he sees at once: a semi-conscious turian woman being tended by one of Cullen's medics; an older batarian man bound and kneeling near her, on whom Agatha has placed two guards for some reason; and a third, who kneels in the middle of the room with his wrists bound behind his back. This one is batarian too. Cullen isn't good at assessing alien ages, but he gets the impression that this one is young, to judge by his smaller size and a certain wideness to his four eyes, which make him seem afraid and vulnerable in a way that the other slavers are not. Young and bearing the lowest caste-markings, if Cullen judges correctly. So probably once a slave himself. Perhaps Cullen will be able to appeal to his reason.

     "Lieutenant Agatha has surely told you I have no love for slavers," Cullen says to the boy. He glances at Agatha. She's looking at the naked omni-blade in his hand. Ah, he'd forgotten it. The batarian boy is looking at it, too, eyes even wider with fear. Cullen considers for a moment, then finally shuts the blade off. Agatha relaxes perceptibly. Cullen sighs, allows himself to consider briefly that _perhaps_ Anders is right, and then he dismisses this thought to focus on the moment. "She is correct. I would kill every slaver I meet, if I could. But you cannot have been in the business long, surely? You lack the look."

     The boy swallows hard, eyes darting everywhere, and says nothing. Too scared to speak? This will not do. Cullen hunkers down so that he's on level with the boy, though he is aware that he will not ever manage to look truly harmless. He wears Guardian-class heavy armor, red and gold, emblazoned with the N7 stripe down his right arm and branded with a small sword-in-flames on the left shoulder. Cullen sees the boy mark his shoulder brand and inhale in frightened recognition. Those eyes are going to fall out of his head at this rate.

     "Perhaps I can promise you safety," Cullen suggests. The boy tenses and stares at his face now, hope plain on his alien features. "Not freedom; not when you have stolen the freedom of others. But perhaps I can make sure you end up in a Council prison for your crimes, rather than being shipped back to Khar'shan."

     The boy swallows audibly. Yes, that got his attention. The prisons of Khar'shan are notoriously cruel -- barely guarded, rife with torture and rape, with a staggeringly high mortality rate. Cullen nods. "All you have to do, for me to arrange this, is tell me where your scout ship is likely to dock next."

     "Don't say a word," snarls the batarian man from across the room. He's spoken in one of the more obscure Khar'shan languages, but Alliance translation databases have it; Cullen understands him clearly. He understands better the way the boy cringes at the older man's command. Some body language is universal.

     Standing, Cullen gestures at the older batarian's guards. _Get him out of here_. They haul the man to his feet and start to guide him away. He goes along readily, until they get near the boy. Then he lunges at the boy -- but Cullen has been waiting for this. All at once the man freezes, four eyes widening in shock at the sudden appearance of Cullen's omni-blade. Its tip hovers just inches from whatever passes for a sternum in batarians. If he'd lunged any faster, or completed the movement toward the boy without catching himself, he would have been impaled.

     _Pity_ , Cullen thinks. The paperwork for dead slavers is shorter than for live captives.

     "So many of you people are alike," he says, quietly. He speaks to the man, but the boy is staring as well, openmouthed. For the boy, then, Cullen resists the urge to shove the blade forward and run the man through. The boy might yet be salvaged. "So many of you are small people, back in your own societies. You are drawn to this, where you might feel powerful in at least some small way. But all it makes you is predictable."

     The man stares back at Cullen. When his guards finally haul him back, he struggles, though only a little. "He's a Templar!" he shouts as they drag him out of the lab. The boy flinches and twists 'round to watch him be hauled away, and the man's eyes fix on him. "A Templar! You know what they do! You can't -- get off me! It isn't -- "

     Then the lab door shuts. Thankfully, the scientists who died here could afford good soundproofing.

     Cullen shakes his head, then turns back to the boy. The boy is staring ahead into space and trembling a little, doubtless shaken by the man's outburst. In spite of himself, Cullen feels moved to pity. Enough slavers have felt the lash themselves that he generally grants them no moral quarter, but this boy is still well-acquainted with suffering, he can tell. Perhaps the older man has been abusing him.

     "Wh- What will happen to him?" the boy asks.

     Cullen shrugs, privately taking this as confirmation of his theory. "Nothing, provided he cooperates." He leaves a corollary to this unspoken, hanging in the air. _Provided you do, as well_. "Now. The scout ship."

     The boy bites his lip. His upper eyes seem on the brink of tears. "If I -- If I tell you where it is, will you... Can he stay here? Be, be in prison with me?"

     "Perhaps," Cullen says. But he thinks, _No_.

     The boy stiffens, expression suddenly tight with anger. "You're lying."

     Cullen frowns. "Wh -- "

     "You're lying. I can _tell_." The boy is suddenly furious. "I can feel it! He's mine. I _need_ him. Just because you don't have one doesn't mean it's right for you to take him away!"

     (Much later, Cullen will review this moment. He will see it in his mind's eye again and again, and wonder if somehow what follows could have been prevented... and know, because of the boy's words, that it could not have been. That he finds out now, though, and this way, is the punishment for his laxity. For failing in his duty as a Templar. All the clues were there, yet he did not _see_.)

     Agatha curses suddenly and draws -- not her sword, but her shield. "Settle down," she snaps at the boy. Cullen tenses too of course, but the boy is still bound and helpless; there is no threat. What has agitated her? And why is the boy taking a deep breath and bracing himself as if --

     A blue-white sheath, crawling with energy fluctuations like a smoldering fire, blazes to life around the boy. And before Cullen can react physically (though his thoughts are a sudden red warning of BIOTIC! SWEET MAKER, HE'S A), the boy bares his teeth, and Cullen is seized by a great invisible hand and flung across the room.

     He hits the wall with enough force that his armor's heads-up display immediately manifests across his vision, red with overload warnings. He _feels_ his bones snap, and even imagines that he can hear the sloshing-about of his brain within its skull. He does not black out, but the world goes gray and jittery, tripled or quadrupled where it should not be and sharper-edged than it actually is.

     But through the pain and the aura of concussion, he hears Agatha cry out. Half blind, desperate to protect his soldiers, he flails a hand and tries to will himself to reach the boy, _stop_ him --

     Things blur. The world turns blue. There is a sudden, racheting pain throughout his skull, starting at the nape and then racing down his spine and through all his limbs. He is cold, and it burns.

     The boy. The _biotic_. Attacking him.

     Furious, Cullen materializes his sword and tries to get up, but nothing of his body works as it should. The boy screams, and Cullen shouts back, willing himself up, to battle, _to stand_ before the wickedness and corruption that is an uncontrolled biotic in full fury --

     There is a curious disjunct of time.

     Cullen finds himself on his knees, barely. Everything hurts. He must hold his probably-broken arm against his side to reduce the pain of cramping muscles. The world is mostly as it should be again, though bright auras surround everything, and... and he feels wrong. Not just injured, but... is he thirsty? Hungry, maybe. But he had breakfast in the mess with everyone else, back at 0700 hours.

     Agatha kneels before him, unhurt, which fills him with relief. She has the oddest look on her face, however.

     "R-report," he manages. "Casualties?"

     "All's well with the landing party," she says. Why is she speaking so softly? "Already evac'd, in fact."

     "What?" But now that Cullen looks around the lab, he finds it empty. There's no one here except him and Agatha. There was obviously some sort of fight; what he can see of the lab has been devastated. Something has even torn its doors from their tracks. They lie smoking and bent, outside the facility. There's also rather a lot of blood on those doors. And on the floor, where the prisoners were. Red, and batarians' blood is the same color. But Agatha said all was well.

     (Is he cold? Cold and hungry. No, that isn't it, either.)

     "Only casualties were the prisoners, ser," Agatha says, following his gaze. She sighs a little. "Commander. _Cullen_. Do you understand what's happened?"

     He blinks at her use of his given name. They are friends, of course, having served together for years, but also because she is a woman after his own heart; propriety is everything to her. She's got a hand on his shoulder, too, which is unusually familiar. Cullen frowns. "The prisoners." He understands now. "The man must have been... The boy was biotic. He would have needed his anchor."

     It is the thing that makes them so dangerous, biotics. They are biological mistakes, born of the unnatural fusion of alien matter, element zero, with the human nervous system. It grants them tremendous power, but they cannot control it -- not alone. Alone, they're bombs that could go off at any moment.

     "Right," Agatha says. "The boy panicked when he realized you meant to separate them. If I'd realized you didn't know..." She shakes her head, then grimaces to herself. "I'll take the blame."

     He hurts and he is tired of hurting. Maybe that's why he feels so peculiar. (Empty. That's it. He's not hungry or thirsty or cold, he is _empty_. Hollow? How odd.) Shaking his head, he tries to shift his weight, gathering strength to try and stand. "There's no -- Maker's Breath!" His first attempt sends a blaze of pain throughout his torso. Ribs broken, maybe arm, muscles cramping. Agatha quickly pushes him back down.

     "Ser, please! I've called secure med-evac, they'll be here in a few moments -- "

     " -- no blame to be had," Cullen finishes, groaning. "Biotics who cannot control themselves must be put down. They aren't people like you or me, Agatha, you know the creed -- "

     "Oh, _ser_." She sounds anguished, which pulls Cullen out of his own misery enough to focus on her. She looks exasperated, hurt, and... wait. That is _pity_ in her expression.

     It frightens him. "Agatha. What's wrong?"

     She shakes her head, but speaks. "Cullen... _You_ neutralized the lad. And his anchor, when the fellow broke free and came charging back inside to protect the boy. Do you remember it?"

     Does he? Just pain and blurring and... blue light. Fear dries his mouth. Why is he so afraid, all of a sudden? "No."

     Agatha takes a deep breath. "You hit them both. Crushed them, really. Just flung out your hand, and..." She lifts a hand, curls her fingers, then snaps them into a tight fist. "The boy had a barrier up, but you broke it like eggshell. The man had wrapped around him, trying to shield him with his body, but... he was just flesh. Just flesh." She sighs, shakes her head slowly. "Then you put them both through the door."

     Cullen stares at her. He has one working arm. He isn't sure he can stand. He cannot have done any of these things as he is. And how exactly _was_ he injured?

     (He is not hungry or thirsty or cold or empty. He is _adrift_. Yes, that's it. He feels lost, like a ship tossed by stormy seas, in desperate need of an -- )

     Blessed Maker. No.

     But Agatha bites her lip and nods at his expression. "I don't know how it's happened, but I saw it with my own eyes. _You're_ biotic."

     He closes his eyes.

     His silence must trouble Agatha. He hears her lean closer. "Ser?"

     No. "I am a _Templar_ , Agatha!"

     But even as he says it, he knows the truth. And she is kind enough, professional enough, to be brutally honest now, before desperation and denial can take root in his heart.

     "Not anymore," she says, too-gently.

     And then Cullen must fold himself around his pain, adrift and alone.

#

     Anders hurries through the corridor which leads to the shuttle bay, fingers pressed tight to the receiver-implant in his ear. "Almost there. But say again, because quite frankly I don't believe you. If I didn't know that my commander completely lacks a sense of humor, I'd accuse you, and him, of yanking my chain."

     "It's no joke," Aveline says. Aveline is always serious, but the _tone_ of her seriousness warns Anders of the gravity of the situation. "I'm looking at the preliminary report Agatha logged, and... Maker. We've got a real problem."

     "What do you m -- Stand by." Anders cuts her off as the shuttle bay doors open to admit him. There is already a security team in place around the just-landed shuttle; good old Aveline. But Anders stops short, horrified, at the sight of a holo-manacles in one of the guards' hands. As the shuttle door cranks open, Anders snarls at the woman, "Put those away!"

     The woman, true to Aveline's training, stiffens. "Ser, with all due respect, standard Alliance protocol for unregistered, unanchored biotics is -- "

     "I know the bloody protocol! I said put them away!"

     The woman reluctantly complies, and Anders shakes his head before attempting to compose himself. The situation is a damned mess no matter how one looks at it, but the protocols will just make things worse. It's almost as if someone in Alliance Command wrote them with the specific intention of angering unstable biotics -- perhaps to set them off and thus justify their mistreatment. Cullen always gets so stiff-backed when Anders says things like this, the damned fool. But though Anders has sometimes struggled to get along with his uptight bigot of a second-in-command, they've both managed thus far because they can both be professional, when it really matters. Anders can muster enough maturity to _not_ toss off a casual, _So, how's it feel to be a second-class citizen now?_ However much he might want to.

     Then the door is open, and Cullen limps down the ramp leaning on Agatha. And suddenly Anders no longer wants to say anything at all.

     The man is _gray_ with the shock of it -- not just pale, but positively cadaverous. Some of that has to be Cullen's injuries; Aveline mentioned a concussion, and he's obviously having trouble moving freely. Some of it is likely caloric debt too; high-level biotics consume a great deal of energy. But mostly what Anders notices is the hellishly grim self-loathing in Cullen's gaze, and the way he keeps that gaze on the floor. Cullen is normally a dour man, unsmiling even on a good day, as unbending in carriage as he is in attitude. Now, though -- Anders tries to keep his expression neutral, but he cannot help thinking it: _Maker, I think this has broken him._

     Cullen stops as he reaches Anders. "Ser," he says. Even his voice has gone dull. "Forgive me for not making my report with the landing party. Circumstances..." And all at once, he seems to lose his ability to pretend that everything is fine. He looks away, and falls silent.

     "Make your report later, Commander," Anders says. He's kept his voice neutral, as well; Cullen's not the sort of man who reacts well to pity. "I'm putting you on the injured roster. When you've recovered, we can discuss -- "

     "I _cannot_ be on the injured roster," Cullen snaps suddenly. His voice is ragged. "I cannot be of the ship's complement at all, ser. As far as the Systems Alliance is concerned, as an unregistered b- " He flinches, as if the word has hurt his mouth, then sets his jaw and grinds through. " _Biotic_. I am ineligible to serve on an Alliance vessel."

     "Commander." Anders makes his voice a warning, praying that Cullen's sense of propriety will kick in and prevent him from contradicting Anders in front of others. "We can discuss this later. Your injuries take priority."

     Cullen shakes his head, shudders and winces as this obviously hurts. "I am unregistered and _a danger to this ship_. I should be put in the brig!"

     Oh, for the Maker's sake. Anders steps close, furious. "Listen to me, you bloody fool. If you're not under my command anymore, then you're a civilian passenger and I can do what I sodding want with you. Is that understood?"

     Cullen looks up then, and Anders almost loses it here. He can't play the hardass when there is such utter despair on Cullen's face. But, to Anders' great relief, Cullen finally nods and shuts up. Anders eyes Agatha, who salutes awkwardly and then resumes hauling Cullen toward the shuttle bay doors. Technically the medics who went down with the shuttle should be the ones helping Cullen, but Anders sees the two of them lingering inside the shuttle, talking quietly and visibly keeping back. They don't want to be anywhere near him. Anders glances at the security team, and says so that Cullen can hear, "Comm -- Mr. Rutherford is confined to sick bay. I want a guard stationed at the door at all times." Then he touches his comm again. "Harding, I need to know who ship's anchor is by 0800."

     Harding signals back a quick acknowledgement. He doesn't need to ask for this. He already knows what Harding's report will tell him, which is that there's only one registered anchor aboard. He needs to go through the motions, though. It's a performance; the situation is too FUBAR for protocol to matter, but right now protocol will obviously be a comfort to Cullen.

     Cullen stops and glances back at him. Of course the fool is _grateful_ to be treated like this. Anders shakes his head and waves them on. When everyone else is out of the shuttle bay except a few personnel who are out of earshot, Anders gestures impatiently to the medics. "Come and tell me what you obviously don't want to, damn it. This day can't get much worse. How is this even _possible_? He wasn't a biotic this morning but he is now?"

     The medics come forward, and one of them's got a datapad in one hand. "Ser," she says, keeping her voice low. "I -- well, I can't access Comm - Mr. Rutherford's medical history, but there's evidence he's suffered at least one severe eezo exposure, necessitating full decontamination -- "

     "Yes," Anders replies. He holds out a hand, and she puts the datapad in it. "I'm overriding the personnel block so you can access his medical history. It happened some years ago; he was forced to work for a time in the engineering bay of a ship with faulty core shielding. But usually severe exposure means _cancer_ , not late-in-life biotic development -- "

     Then Anders stops. He's looking at the datapad the medics have handed him. Looking at photos of the laboratory that the landing team used as base camp. He's looking at the shattered doors, and at batarian blood splattered over half the chamber.

     His comm crackles. Harding. "Ser, sorry to interrupt, but I have that information you wanted. Ship's anchor is Private Keran. Did you want me to tell him to report to sick bay?"

     A private. Cullen's a commander. But that's not the worst of it. Anders swallows, unable to take his eyes from the datapad. "Harding, what ranking of biotic is Private Keran rated to handle?"

     "Oh, right. Hang on. He's..." Anders hears a series of quick bleeps as Harding does something with her interface. "Okay, ser, he's good for Class One. Basic qualification."

     Maker's Breath and Bones and Blood. That was what Aveline meant. He knows the answer but asks anyway, because sometimes fear makes one stupid. "All right. Harding, I'm going to need you to skim the personnel complement of the nearest Alliance base and see if they've got another registered anchor sitting around. Someone higher-rated." He licks his lips. "Like, oh, C5."

     " _Five?_ " But Harding restrains herself after this. Anders hears more haptic-interface signaling as she taps out queries, and then finally -- "No, sir. Nearest base is just a listening post; they've got no biotics or anchors. For that, we'll need to either find another ship of the line, or head toward a major port." She pauses. Her voice trembles a little. "Ser. Do we have a Class Five aboard?"

     _Yes,_ Anders thinks, in rapidly rising horror. _Yes, we have a completely untrained, emotionally distraught C5 on this ship, and there's no one in a hundred light years with anywhere near the strength to restrain him if he loses control._

     "It's worse than that," says another voice in his ear. This one is male, synthesized, speaking via an encrypted private channel. "Rutherford's psychological profile just got uploaded from Alliance Command, now that he's technically a passenger and not a crew member. Of particular note is his history of self-harm -- specifically, addiction. Under the circumstances..."

     _Cullen?_ Of all the damned things for him to hide from his commander -- Anders grinds his teeth. Yes, the bloody _circumstances_. He opens a comm to Navigation. "Alistair, lay in a course for the Citadel, would you? Highest speed."

     "What about the slavers?" Alistair sounds incensed. Then he amends, "Oh, but I suppose we don't know where they are anymore."

     No, they don't, because Cullen has slathered their only lead all over the inside of a Kanisa Colony prefab. And if Cullen loses control, he will do the same with the entire Maker-damned ship, and everyone on it.

     "We can't help them right now," Anders says, softly. "Now, Alistair. Fast as you can."

     "Well, _that's_ not ominous at all! We'll be there yesterday, Captain."

     Anders can only pray that will be soon enough.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new sheriff in town, and his name is Hawke. No, not *that* Hawke, damn it.

     Carver knows what they haven't told him the instant he steps off the shuttle. And he can tell at once that there's something off about the captain of the ship, too. The captain's a tall blond man inclined to slouch, handsome in a prematurely-aged-by-stress kind of way. He's got a friendly smile on his face, though this fades rapidly as Carver steps off the shuttle ramp. Underneath the smile is worry and frustration and anxiety -- and anger. Huh. Interesting.

     "Welcome to the _Justice_ ," the man says, starting to salute before catching himself and offering a hand instead. "Captain Anders. I thought..." He hesitates, grimaces, and inwardly Carver sighs for the ten thousandth time. "Well, pardon me if I've mistaken things, but I was told that Hawke identified as a woman."

     Carver recites, "That's the other Hawke, Marion. My sister. I'm Carver Hawke." Damn it. "We can get all that sorted later, though; for now, you'd best take me to your little problem. He's not doing too good."

     Anders' frown deepens. "How do you -- "

     "Feel it," Carver snaps. And Anders is taking too bloody long. Carver turns, orienting, and begins striding rapidly in the direction of that hovering, jittering tension that's making his skin itch. "Can't you?"

     "A little, but -- " Anders splutters and trots to follow him. "Serrah. I'm sorry to be blunt, but I specifically requested an expert. Not the expert's brother."

     Carver shakes his head, trying not to get angry. Not this fool's fault. "Who happens to be an expert too. Not my fault you don't rate the Great Marion Hawke. She's off helping Hackett with a bunch of biotic kids who got infected with some kind of chlorine-based parasite, or something." He shrugs. "I forget the details. Anyway, she called, and the Bull vouched for you, so you get me."

     "The _Bull_? Maker. Hold on -- "

     Carver reaches the elevator and hits its call, trying to narrow down the source of that awful looming threat. Maker, that poor biotic is in full burn. And his system has probably only recently flipped over from all-calories to calories-and-dark energy; he isn't ready for this kind of grind. Frustrated, Carver hits the call again. Damned elevator's slow.

     Anders, meanwhile, seems to have finally gotten tired of faking politeness. "All right. Since you don't seem to be listening to me, I'm trying to tell you that this is a special case. Cullen is -- was -- a _Templar_. You know, that whole order of fanatics who think biotics are an alien threat to humankind? You've got to tread carefully."

     The elevator doors finally open and Carver's in before they've slid all the way apart. Anders follows, still bitching. "Uh-huh," Carver says absently, jabbing at the button for level 4. Except Alliance frigates don't have level 4s, do they? Five levels, but the docking bay takes up the bottom two. There's cargo space, but apart from that the only other thing on a frigate's level 4 is -- Carver's blood chills.

     Anders sighs behind Carver. "Are you even _listening_ to me?"

     Carver fights the urge to grab the man by the front lapel of his fatigues. Instead he turns and fixes the man with a glare, letting Anders see every iota of worry in his face. "No, I'm not. I'm listening to the support struts."

     "The _what_?"

     Carver Jabs a thumb toward the ceiling of the elevator. "Hear that?" The groan of metal is faint, but there. Anders narrows his eyes, and then goes pale as he hears it too. "Yeah. Starting to warp. Probably why the elevator's half fucked; your mass effect generators are out of alignment."

     Anders groans in unison with his ship. "Oh, Maker's Breath. He's held on so long, I thought... but he can't, can he? It's too much."

     "Right. When a biotic blows, the wave of force goes outward in concentric circles. The lateral struts always go first." Carver makes a sphere with his hands and expands it slowly. "Your fellow's trying to hold it in, so it's slo-mo. He's failing, though, so it's happening anyway. Got it?"

     "Got it," Anders says, sighing and rubbing his eyes. "Slow-motion _destroying my ship_."

     "Yeah, well." Carver jabs the level 4 button again. They're going up one floor, for fuck's sake! He should've found the emergency stairs instead. "Ship this size with not even a C3 anchor on board, you're lucky worse hasn't happened. Especially since you've thrown him in the sodding brig, like he's a _criminal_." If Carver thinks about it, he'll be furious, so he tries to only say it and not chew on it, spit the words, make them a curse.

     At this, however, Anders shakes his head. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, ah, Specialist Hawke. Commander -- " He winced. " _Mr._ Rutherford put _himself_ in the brig. Over my objections."

     "He put -- " Now it's Carver's turn to stare. But then the elevator's doors finally open, and there's no more time for talk.

     It's level 4, and the air is vibrating. Carver curses and trots forward, trying to ignore the sweat breaking out all over his body. Maker, the _power_ that thrums through the walls and his clothes and his lungs! He's never felt a human biotic with strength like this. Asari, a couple of krogan battlemasters, but never anyone from the home team. The brig is a simple empty room -- a small cargo hold, really -- sectioned off from the rest of the ship with a mass effect field. On the far side of the room, sitting hunched in a corner and looking badly frightened, is a very young blond man in privates' fatigues, who looks terrified. Carver doesn't fucking blame him, not one bit.

     At the center of the room kneels another man. This one is older, though also blond; his hair is curly to the other fellow's straight. Someone's given him a pillow, but Carver's knees still ache in sympathy. His hands are clasped so tightly together that Carver can see the white of his knuckles. He rocks a little, murmuring lines from the Chant of Light to himself. Carver hasn't bothered much with the Chant, but he knows these lines, because sodding Templars always try to throw them into his face. "Blessed are the those who stand against the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter..."

     That's what this ex-Templar is praying for, right now. For the control to stand against _himself_. Dearest Maker.

     Enough. Carver snarls and plants a hand against the mass effect wall in front of him. It stings a little to touch -- someone's programmed it with aversive feedback -- but he ignores it and then negates it. Overstressed mass effect generators whine around the edges of the field, then pop off before they overload. The field dissolves and Carver hurries in. Line-of-sight will do once they're connected, but this first time, he needs contact. The praying man doesn't look up at the breach; he might not even have noticed. Everything in him is channeled, right now, toward the desperate need to rein in his own rampant, horrifically destructive power.

     Carver plants a hand on the crown of his head, right in the middle of those golden curls. When he shuts his eyes, he can feel the cycling-up of his implant, amplifying his strength -- but anchoring is a skill, not a mere matter of power, and it's going to take a delicate touch to rein in an out-of-control baby Class Five. The man's nervous system suddenly glimmers before his inner eye, limned in light. At stunningly regular points, Carver can make out nodes amid the lines of light. Eezo nodules. _A lot of_ eezo nodules, all of them active. How the fuck did an adult human survive this level of contamination?

     Doesn't matter. Carver moves at the speed of thought, but with deliberation. First he impinges his own nervous system onto the man's, aligning himself. There is a brief, sharp _ting_ of connection, vibrating through them both like a struck bell. All at once Carver hears the man stop praying and gasp, moving a little beneath Carver's hand. Then, one by one, Carver wills every single one of the man's eezo nodules into standby mode.

     This is the clincher. Carver is braced for resistance, maybe backlash feedback. A biotic with this kind of power, in full burn? Shutting him down's gonna be hard. It's gonna _hurt_. But --

     -- the wave of sensation that ripples through Carver is not at all painful. In fact it's the complete opposite of painful. In fact --

     -- ohhhh, shit, _that's_ not how it's supposed to feel.

     Blushing despite himself, Carver tries not to think about it, because pantsfeelings or not, he's still got a job to do. The man's power does rise, but not to fight Carver. It _welcomes_ him, instead, in a way that only Bethany's ever has, before. Except Bethany was Carver's twin, and she loved him, and they needed each other; that was symbiosis. This fellow's power _grabs_ onto Carver like a drowning thing and wraps around him. It doesn't fight even as Carver pulls and locks it into place, but there's a hovering tension that constantly reminds Carver that the power is _there_. Clingy, this one. It's weird. A fully-developed adult ego shouldn't yield so easily to another's control, especially not when this fellow hasn't a clue what's going on. Carver's still trying to understand... when abruptly he notices that the _ting_ of their initial connection hasn't really faded. It's vibrating more, in fact -- and getting "louder," if that word applies to a sensation that's in the brain and not the ears. Beginning to --

     -- and Carver jerks away from the man, startled and breathing entirely too hard. "Oh, shit," he murmurs, in shock. That's not good. That's not good at all.

     But at least the heavy shiver of the air around them has stopped, at last.

     In the new stillness, the man lifts his head slowly. His gaze is unfocused, like someone coming out of a deep sleep. Carver grimaces at the dryness of his skin, the gauntness of his cheeks. He hasn't eaten enough. He's dehydrated, too. No one's taken care of him properly.

     "What..." The man sounds dazed, and so exhausted that Carver's belly clenches in sympathy. "Have you..." He frowns to himself, then squints up at Carver. "Have you taken the demon from me?"

     It's against regs, against _recs_ , but Carver cannot help himself. He steps closer and slides his hands along the man's shoulders, up to the base of his neck where the all those eezo-thrumming nerves come together. The skin is hot and taut here, nerves and tendons inflamed; poor man's probably got a demon of a headache. Carver digs his fingers into the area like he's giving a deep-tissue massage, then works them in a gentle rhythm. It won't stop the inflammation -- they need to get him to the ship's doctor, get him on some meds -- but it might at least make him feel better.

     At once the man groans in relief and slumps forward. His head lands on Carver's belly, and Carver cannot help folding a protective arm around him. (He has to angle his hips away, though, to make sure the man doesn't notice, uh, well, he manages it, is what matters.) "That's it," Carver murmurs. It's nonsense, but he can't help this either. It's his nature to try and take care of powerful people, Bethany once told him, and she was right. No bones about it. "That's right. I'll take care of you, swear. You're safe, now."

     The man shudders. His voice is dull and soft. "No one can make me safe again."

     Gods, he sounds so much like Bethany.

     Carver's hands tighten, fingers pressing more comfort into the man's shoulders. "Fucking _watch_ me," he declares, and that's it. He's in it, now. Both of them, right? In it together.

     "Who," the man breathes. Maker, he's shaking, as if chilled. Reaction shock from biotics overuse. Carver's got to get him to the infirmary now.

     "I'm Carver Hawke," Carver replies. Declares, so this ship's captain and that useless anchor in the corner and anybody else who's listening in on this _fucking jail cell_ will hear Carver stake his claim. "I'm your fucking anchor."

#

     "Well, _that's_ a relief," says Merrill, drawing up her knees and folding her arms around them. All that awful biotic _pressure_ is gone at last; she rubs at her temple with one finger. "Sort of thought we were all going to die, but I guess it's all better now."

     "It still isn't good," Anders says, watching the sickbay on his cabin's large viewscreen. In the shimmering holo-image, they've gotten Cullen into a bed and sedated. The doctor's trying to administer something else, but the larger figure of Carver, hovering by Cullen's bed, actually puts out a hand to stop him. Even with the audio feed muted, Anders can tell that Carver is yelling at him. It figures; since they've never had high-level biotics stationed on-ship, the doctor isn't the local expert on biotic care. A Class Five anchor is. But Carver certainly doesn't seem the type to be tactful about it.

     "I'm pretty sure he sensed something," Anders says, turning away from the screen with a sigh. "We're lucky he was so focused on Cullen, but once this crisis is done..."

     "Maybe we could just... tell him?" Merrill shrugs, looking uneasy. "He's not wearing a uniform. You said he was a specialist -- a private contractor, a civilian, not part of the military. Maybe he's not... you know."

     "An ass?" Anders chuckles and then drops into his desk chair with a groan. "That's too much to hope for."

     From his cabin's speakers comes a voice. "Carver Hawke's personnel records are classified, but he has been mentioned in three unclassified cases. In one, he turned in an unregistered biotic. The Templars later asserted the right of claim, and made her tranquil."

     Anders stops, looking appalled. Merrill shudders, trying not to think of it, and failing. It is a cruelty, what these Alliance types do to their biotics. Merrill would never say that things were easier here than in the Traverse -- here, at least, there's more food and fewer slavers -- but in this one respect, her own people are civilized, while the Alliance is simply wrong. "Was there a reason?" she ventures, hopeful. "Maybe the biotic he turned in was... bad?"

     "Unknown."

     Anders leans back in his chair. "For now, we treat Hawke as a potential threat. I'll have to keep in contact with him, but I'll sound him out -- carefully, of course," he amends, when Merrill draws a breath to speak. She blushes and subsides. "But frankly, there's no other choice. If he's sensitive enough to detect the truth, then the only defense we have is forewarning. Justice, can you monitor his communications?"

     Merrill rather thought that Justice sounded troubled, though it was always a little hard to tell with synthesized voices. "Those that transmit via comm buoy, yes. Quantum entanglement transmissions, however, no."

     "He's not _that_ important, is he?" Merrill sits up, worried. "I mean, I've heard of Hawke, but this one's not the right Hawke."

     "No idea." Anders rubs his eyes. "Regardless, I think it's best if you simply stay away from him. He'll have his hands full with Cullen anyway, mostly. Andraste at the stake, and here I thought Cullen was enough of a problem."

     Merrill nods and gets up from her chair daintily, tucking her hair behind one ear. "I wish," she begins, and then stops.

     Anders eyes her over his hand, then sighs. "I know. I _do_ know, Merrill, truly. It's been difficult, watching Cullen suffer these past few days; I care about him, too. But he is a Templar. We could never have trusted him."

     Merrill sighs. "I know. I just... wish." And she wishes that Isabela was here, to help her face this new threat. But some things just aren't meant to be.

     Anders smiles, and it's kindly, but it doesn't reach his eyes, so Merrill knows it's a lie. "One day," he says, very gently. "One day, all biotics will be free of the bloody Chantry and its thugs. Until then... be careful."

     Merril nods unnecessarily. She is always careful. But what troubles her is that Anders is _not_ always careful. Anders is something entirely apart from careful, especially when he is angry. So she feels compelled to ask, even though she knows the answer: "And what if this Hawke finds out the truth, Captain?"

     Anders' smile does not change -- but for just an instant, above that smile, his eyes glimmer blue and not their usual warmer brown. It's only for a moment, but it's an answer in and of itself.

     "Then," Anders says, and his voice comes not just from his mouth, but the speakers as well, "we will all do what is necessary, Merrill. As we have always done. There can be no half-measures."

 


	3. Chapter 3

     Through a haze of delirium, Cullen is vaguely aware of being carried. When the world grows still again, he keeps moving, unstable, drifting in and out of consciousness. Everything hurts. The demon's claws have rent him nearly to the bone... but it is good to be no longer alone within this cage of horrors. He does not deserve it, but somehow, he has acquired a defender. A shining knight, limned in black light -- but the blackness is comforting, not ominous. It draws Cullen in. It quenches the awful, burning light within him, before that light can do harm. It soothes his pain with strong, sure hands, and speaks on his behalf with a voice that is both gentle and ferocious, as needed.

     "I told you to put him facedown," that voice is saying now, testily. "I'm gonna need access to his spine -- no, sod it, haven't you ever handled reaction shock? He needs -- fucking _no_ , he's overstimulated already, you can't give him that anti-inflammatory, don't you know it's a bloody stimulant? Listen to me, if you have quellarin, or -- "

     There's more yelling. The ship's healer is new, just added as of the _Justice's_ last berth; Cullen does not know her well. She manages, however, and after someone presses a hypo-injector to his neck, blessed coolness spreads throughout Cullen's flesh. He sinks a little, then, into a space of quiet -- but always, always, he is aware of his knight's presence. When the man moves around him, Cullen feels it, follows him. When he moves away, the monitors attached to Cullen beep louder, and he shudders in anxiety. But always the presence stays connected to him, somehow, so he manages to remain calm. The voice speaks to him now and again, gently, and Cullen takes comfort in every syllable.

     "Ship full of sodding barbarians," Cullen's knight mutters. "Never been 'round a high-spiker but they _will_ believe the rumors, won't they? We'll show them. Just did too much right out of the gate, didn't you? Poor fellow. Cullen, right? That's what the captain said. Well, Cullen, I'm here now. I've got you. We're going to be fine."

     It's the thing Cullen has ached to hear most, even if it's a lie. Reassured, he can sleep.

     When Cullen next wakes someone is touching his back.

     It isn't sexual, but there is an intimacy to the touch that would unnerve him, if he were fully conscious. As it is he observes with distant detachment, feeling but not caring much that fingers press into his lower back on either side of his spine. They are doing... _something_ to him. He cannot articulate it. The sensation that pulses through his body in time with the pressing fingers' rhythm is indescribable. Like a wash of wind. Wavelets of silence. His arms burn, at points. His toes twitch. His heels jerk, now and again, as if the person who is touching him is _playing_ him, like a puppet.

     Coming more awake, Cullen jerks and murmurs and finds that he's lying on his belly. When he pushes up to look around, he sees a young man standing over his infirmary bed. The young man is black-haired, white but with a decent farmer's tan on his forearms, where he's rolled up his sleeves so that he can massage? examine? Cullen. Not a spacer, then; he's lived most of his life on a planet's surface. He's got the bluest eyes Cullen has ever seen. But then he shifts, and Cullen promptly stops noticing his eyes.

     That's because the young man's movement has revealed civilian clothing -- but his jacket has an insignia on its shoulder. A stylized, swirling vortex with a small three-dimensional sphere at the center.

     Fury washes through Cullen. " _Anchorate._ "

     The man starts, then looks up. Infuriatingly, he smiles. "Feeling better, then?"

     Cullen flips over. The man draws back a little, then winces and reaches out as if to stop him from moving. "Hang on, your nodes are still healing -- "

     "Don't touch me!" Cullen snarls. The man looks startled, stopping with his hand still upraised. "Don't ever touch me, _terrorist_."

     The man stares, then sighs, his expression settling into sour lines. "Right. That business." He straightens and moves away from the bed. Not far -- just to a chair on the other side of the room, which has a built-in footlift; there's a bag of snacks beside it, which the young man picks up after he puts his feet up. "Well, then. Questions. Let's have them."

     Cullen is infuriated by his casual unconcern -- but a retort dies on his lips as, all of a sudden, he finds himself intensely focused on the young man. Intensely _aware_ of him, in ways that don't make any sense. He notices the man's breathing pattern. Precisely how far away he is -- and when he moves, it feels as though a part of Cullen moves with him. What is that? And Maker, why does he notice the _salt,_ when the young man eats something from the bag of snacks? It's on his lips, and Cullen can almost taste --

     He shakes his head violently and puts a hand to his forehead in confusion and rising fear. The demon of biotics is alive in him, he remembers now. No telling what other depraved things it might press him to do.

     "Your perception of the world is going to be a bit different, now," the young man says, as Cullen sits there trying not to panic. His voice is gentler now, compassionate but professional. This is a balm, though Cullen doesn't want it to be. "You've basically got a brand-new sixth sense. Biotics are a whole new way of taking things in. You'll get used to it."

     "I do not wish to get used to it," Cullen says, in misery.

     There's a pause. The gentle voice becomes gentler still, and that makes the words even more brutal when they land. "Kinda don't have a choice, friend."

     It hurts. Sweet Maker, it hurts. And that, suddenly, gives Cullen's rage a focus. "I am not your friend," he snaps. He stops clutching his head and glares at the young man. " _Terrorist._ "

     The young man sighs. "Right. So. The Anchorate? Me?" He points to his insignia. " _Not_ terrorists. Unless you count being decent human beings as terrorism. Some do, I figure. _Templars_ do, yeah?" His expression hardens. "Oh. But you're not a Templar anymore.  Are you."

     Cullen flinches. Mustering his dignity, he says, "I can hold fast to the Order's principles, even if... even if I can no longer fight among them."

     "Sure you can," the young man says. He's angry now. "Not the best fucking idea when you're a biotic, but you can try. Put yourself in the brig, didn't you? Like you'd done something wrong."

     "I am an unregistered biotic," Cullen said, hating even the sound of the words in his own ears. "Untrained, unanchored. It's illegal for me to be on this ship, or anywhere in Alliance space."

     The young man rolls his eyes so hard they almost make a sound. "Yeah, well you're not unanchored anymore, all right?" Cullen blinks in surprise. "And I'm also here to train you, and then you can get registered. So leave off with the martyrdom a minute, and we'll get started like that." He clicks his tongue. "Leaving aside the fucked-up notion that anyone should be illegal for _existing_. Don't see how humanity's going to make it amid the galaxy when we can't manage not to violate our own species' idea of human rights -- "

     "You have anchored me," Cullen blurts suddenly, finally understanding. His strange _focus_ on the young man. As if everything in him is being tugged along by a weight -- one that moves and insists that Cullen is still somehow human enough to be worthy of rights. Cullen shudders at the sudden mental vision of himself on a leash. Now his voice shakes, but he cannot help himself. "I have no need of your aid, serrah. I kept myself in check before you arrived, and I mean to do so on my own."

     The young man's eyebrows rise. "You do understand that anchors aren't _optional_ for baby biotics, right? I know what the Templars say, but it isn't true. Managing biotics isn't just a matter of trying hard enough. Our brains aren't built for this business. You need support to develop your neural pathways -- "

     Cullen bares his teeth. He does not mean to, but he's reaching the end of his patience. "I will keep myself in check as any decent human being should," he says, "with prayer and concentration."

     The young man shakes his head. "Yeah, saw how you managed before I got here. That was admirable, but if all your strength is bent toward keeping your power in, that just makes it more likely that when you slip, it'll be a horrorshow. And you've got to _use_ the power, in battle or anywhere else you need to, to develop your pathways, or you'll never learn to control yourself." He sits forward. "Listen. You need to trust me. I know that will be hard, especially if you're the sort who doesn't like to rely on others, but -- "

     "I said," Cullen grits through his teeth, "that I do not need you. Take your -- _anchor_ \-- from me at once."

     The young man goes very still. "You don't want me to do that, friend."

     "Leave!" Cullen snarls the words so fiercely that spittle flies from his lips; he flinches and checks himself, but the rage remains at the core of him, burning and bitter, and it needs an outlet. "I will be a _man_ , not some -- I am a Templar! I will _stand_ against wickedness, _on my own_. I did not ask for your aid!"

     "It's supposed to be your choice, yeah," the young man agrees. His voice has gone as neutral as his face. "I couldn't ask before 'cause you were out of it, but I'm supposed to respect your wishes now that you're capable. But I need to warn you: the first time a baby biotic loses his external anchor is the worst. And you're raw inside, only half healed... _You're not ready._ "

     "Let go of me." Cullen grips the sheets of his hospital bed. He's shaking. He wants to weep. He cannot bear this, being so helpless, his willpower overridden by this stranger, every part of his body rebelling against him as if infested by a demon. If they will only leave him alone. If they would only let him have his gun. "Please. Let me _go_."

     A muscle flexes in the young man's jaw, but then he puts down the footlift and gets up from the chair. There's a port on the side of the room. The young man slides his hands into his pockets and gazes out into space. Cullen can see the stars unmoving, beyond him. The _Justice_ is stationary somewhere; why? Cullen has neglected his duty enough. "Well?" he demands of the young man.

     "It's done," the young man says to the window. "All anchor free."

     Cullen feels no different. He feels... good, in fact; better than he has in days. Hungry, and sore all over as if he has taken a beating, and sort of stinging and hot in places as if he has burned something underneath his skin, which makes no sense. _Raw_ is what the young man called this feeling, and it's fitting. Nevertheless, Cullen throws aside the coverlets on the hospital bed. "Justice VI," he calls, relieved to hear the room's sensors ping in response to his voice. Anders has removed him from active duty, but not from the ship complement entirely. Cullen swings his legs over the edge of the bed to get up, but has to pause when his head spins for a moment. It will pass. "Please inform Captain Anders that I am -- "

     The head-spinning has not passed. Cullen frowns and touches fingers to his temple. Perhaps he's dehydrated. If he --

     The world lurches, heaving beneath his feet -- and then flares into a bright technicolor hell, like something out of a badly-calibrated infrared visor. But he's wearing no visor; these are his _eyes_ which have suddenly betrayed him. Cullen sucks in a breath when he suddenly feels as though he is falling off the (lurid, bright green) bed. Frantically he grabs for the (jittering, pink) railing, but the hard plastic twists out of his grip like a living thing. "No!" he blurts, and his voice echoes in his ears, too loud, deeper than it should be, flanged like a turian's, like something _inhuman_. He opens his mouth to cry out and something fills it, foul and bitter, like bile; has he vomited? How can he not _know_? The stench of blood is in his nostrils as he flails and grabs something that he cannot see, as his feet slip and gravity spins and he no longer knows if he is going mad or if the Black City has come for him --

     And then, suddenly, the world snaps back to rightness. Cullen is on the floor beside his bed, curled into a sweating, gasping, shuddering knot. He jerks and looks up; the young man is crouched beside him, one hand firmly on his shoulder.

     "Wanna show you something," the young man says, as if merely continuing their conversation from before the world upended itself. He moves a little to the side, and jabs a thumb back at the port window where he'd been standing.

     There's a crack in it.

     Cullen stares at this. It's being sealed, even as he watches; an emergency mass effect field has materialized outside of the window, reinforcing it while a drone, newly emerged from its usual hiding place under the outer hull plates, crouches on the edge of the window and sprays the material with chemical sealant. The repair will be done in minutes. Still.

     "You did that," the young man says. Cullen flinches. "Beautiful lash, really, but you were fucking hallucinating, so."

     Cullen stares at the damaged port. "...I?"

     "You. You believe me, or you need to see the security cam footage?" He lifts his head. "Oi, Justice VI? Can you -- "

     "N-no," Cullen says. It's true. He knows it, in his heart of hearts, and the knowledge makes him queasy. "I... believe you."

     "Right, then. Good. Start of trust and all." He sighs, then straightens, adopting a more formal mien. "So, told you before but you were out of it: I'm Carver Hawke. In my capacity as a Class Five Registered Biotic Support Specialist, modified L3 Lothering series implant, on temporary assignment to the Systems Alliance from the Biotic Anchorate Guild, I officially declare you a danger to yourself and others. It's my duty to quell you if I must, and train you as I should, until such time as I judge the danger past." He shakes his head. "That means I don't have to obey, if you ask me to un-anchor you again. Not 'til you can self-support. Got it?"

     Cullen stares at him, understanding at last. It is the proof, now, that he is less than human; he no longer even has ownership of his actions. He looks away. The shudders have eased off; now he goes limp. "I wanted only to serve the Maker," he whispers. It is not a thing he ever wanted to confess to a stranger, but he is raw, empty, and there is nothing but despair left in him. "I know not how I failed Him so, to deserve this."

     "You didn't," Carver Hawke says, briskly and with such firm confidence that it actually startles Cullen. "And you got a right lot of serving left in you, if I've anything to say about it." He shifts then, taking his hand off Cullen. Cullen cringes, but nothing happens. The anchor is a thing intangible, and this time Carver has not let him go. Does not mean to do so anytime soon, either, to judge by what he's said. Cullen does not want to take comfort in this, but he does.

     "And now you're all worked up, sod it." Sighing, Carver gets up, rummages about the room and finds Cullen's cleaned and folded fatigues, which he sets on Cullen's bed. Then Carver holds out a hand to Cullen. Cullen stares, then propriety asserts itself and he takes it. Carver stands, pulling on Cullen until Cullen has no choice but to rise with him. On his feet, Cullen is lightheaded again for a moment, and his belly tightens in dread. But this time, the sensation passes. He is weak, but steady. Carver is obscenely cheerful as he says, "All better? Ready to get started?"

     "No."

     "Well, sucks to be you, then. Get dressed." Carver gestures at Cullen's clothing. "'Cause here we go."

#

     Aveline strides into her office and immediately stops, rocking back a little on her heels, at the sight of the communication display active. There's a three-dimensional pale gray face glaring at her from its center.

     "About time you got in," says the Iron Bull, looking annoyed. This is a mighty look of annoyance indeed; the Bull is Qunari, and his great wide horns nearly fill the screen, lending weight to his downturned brows. "Want to tell me why you're sleeping in during an interstellar crisis?"

     "Since I wasn't aware there was one," Aveline says, shutting the door and heading over to her desk, "I think I can be forgiven for showing up at _the start of my shift_. Tell me what's happening, then."

     "Oh, great. Of course you nobody's told you. You're only in more danger than anybody else." The Bull lifts a hand and rubs his good eye. The other has been missing for as long as Aveline has known the man, though the empty socket is currently covered by a rakish leather patch embossed with some kind of dragon-related design. "Typical Alliance, not giving two shits about anybody but the Chantry's chosen."

     "Bull." Aveline folded her arms. He was right, of course; the Chantry was notorious for its xenophobia and veneration of "pure" humans over those tainted by biotics or genetic engineering or artificial intelligence, and the Alliance was far too prone to dance to the Chantry's tune. But the Bull had mentioned a crisis, so he needed to get to the point.

     "Yeah. Fine." He leans forward and taps something where he is, and the edges of Aveline's display go orange. Highest possible encryption level for a non-QEC communique. "So, did you notice the problem with that colony the slavers attacked, before your commander went nuclear? Anything unique about its population?"

     "What?" Sitting down and pulling over her desk display, Aveline tapped open the dossier on Kanisa Colony, quickly skimming its statistics. It looked typical in every way: shake-and-bake mining and macrofacturing operation with an eye toward establishing a long-term ownership claim for the human species, if not the Alliance. Fifteen hundred initial colonists -- just enough to establish viable genetic diversity if they ended up somehow being the last human settlement in the galaxy, but not so many that they'd fail to profit if they discovered something valuable, like Prothean ruins or eezo deposits. Equal mix of planetborn and spacers, with the latter mostly coming from freighter families -- kids born in space and probably raised on parents' stories of planet life, come to see what all the fuss is about. Slightly more women than men, handful of other genders or genderless, decent age mix with a slight underrepresentation of elders, though that's also typical of colonies like this. It's usually the young who want to take such risks. Decent racial mix with a slight underrepresentation of white people; not a problem unless some of those are bigots who start freaking out because they're not the majority. Given that the colony survived for a solid ten years -- very good for the Terminus Systems -- apparently they've managed so far.

     A typical colony in every way, then. So what is the Bull on about? Ah, no -- Aveline isn't thinking. Because the Bull is a Qunari who works for the Anchorate, and there's really only one thing that those two organizations ever agree on. So Aveline swipes in a quick search and finds the answer.

     "Biotics," she says, astonished by the number of names that light up on Kanisa's member manifest. It's only twenty or so people total, but given the usual rarity of biotics in the human population... Aveline frowns. "I don't recall hearing of a ship crash on this planet."

     "There hasn't been," the Bull says. "We monitor shit like that, see, both to make sure nobody starts intentionally contaminating people and also to catch any biotics who pop up when accidents happen. We've sent people there to test; turns out the water table leaches from an eezo deposit that got missed in the initial scans. Good news is that the founding colonists are all rich, even if they just sell the mining rights; bad news is that a lot of 'em are going to have to blow the credits on cancer retrovirals." Aveline winces, and he sighs. "Yeah, that part just sucks. They've had a higher incidence of miscarriages and stillbirths, too. The colony was too small for the stat blip to ping Alliance or Council health monitors, but the trend points that way. Colony's doctor hadn't even figured it out."

     "And the live births are all biotics? Maker, hate to be a kindergarten teacher there." Aveline swipes over to more detailed information about the highlighted names. Then she narrows her eyes. "Hold on. This one's thirty years old. Born on Earth, nowhere near Kanisa. And this one..."

     "Right." The Bull leans forward, wherever he is. "That's the really interesting thing here: Late-onset biotics, like your Commander Rutherford. You know the chances of somebody adapting to eezo contamination as an adult, instead of dying from it? You've got a better chance of winning the Omega Lottery. Even one late-onset is a statistical miracle -- but here on Kanisa, _three_ of them have done it. We've got a theory as to why, but we can't solidify it without studying those three more closely. Unfortunately..."

     Aveline's already flicked through to the end of the dossier. "The scout vessel that got away. The slavers got all three... and the biotic children too?" All at once it hits her. "Maker's Teeth. They _knew_."

     "And Security Chief Vallen wins the prize." The Bull makes an exaggerated gesture that the camera doesn't catch. "And you really want to hear something that'll burn your ears back? _No one else_ knew. Like I said, the stats didn't ping, the scans missed the eezo. None of my anchors picked up on it, and I've got a few who are damn near supernatural with this shit. The Templars either. They go fucking nuts when they spot a cluster like this, determined to catch and collar every 'illegal' before we can ruin them by treating 'em like people -- but even the Chantry's information brokers missed the signs. _Nobody_ knew. Except these goddamned slavers."

     "Slavers are bloody scavengers." Aveline sits forward, fists clenching on her desk. "They might steal information, but they're not good at doing this kind of analysis. How is it possible that they found these biotics?"

     "I have no fucking idea." He sighs. "So this is why I need you to convince your captain to pursue the slavers again."

     "You need me to -- " Abruptly Aveline sees the trap. "Oh. Ohhhh, no. And you're not calling Captain Anders yourself because -- Bull, you didn't. _Tell_ me you didn't, you lecherous old ox."

     The Bull suddenly grins. "Oh, yeah, I hit that. It was a while ago, before he got captain's bars, but we were both on shore leave on the Citadel, and you know how boring that place is. So we decided to kill a little time together. Man, that _mouth_ of his. Did you know he's got this little trick he does with electricity -- "

     "OhsweetMakershutupbeforeIvomit." Aveline puts her face into her hands with a groan.

     Bull sighs, but thankfully stops. "Anyway. I thought we had fun, but Anders isn't returning my calls now, so... It's up to you."

     Aveline says a brief prayer for strength before glaring at him. "Every time you call me, Bull. _Every bloody time_ , it's a problem."

     "Hey! That's not fair. I've gone this whole conversation without propositioning you once. You know how hard that's been? You're a _redhead_ , and you're fucking _amazing_. Also, I sent you my best guy to help, damn it. Hawke?"

     "You sent us _the wrong_ Hawke." Aveline jabs a finger in the Bull's "face." "The one with all the commendations is his older sister."

     "Yeah, that's because _Carver_ Hawke is a jerk, and _Marian_ Hawke's the one who's good at politics and shit like that. But trust me, the kid's just as competent as his big sis. More, in some ways. He's the right Hawke for you; just overlook the attitude. And you're going to need him."

     "Need him? What do you --"

     And then it hits her. Slavers who've been snatching biotics out from under the Anchorate's nose. Slavers who seem interested in human biotics, especially late-onset ones, and who somehow know how to find them before anyone else.

     She stiffens. "Oh, you sodding _bastard_."

     "Hey, Qunari. No parents, remember? So technically, yeah."

     "He's bait. You're using the Commander as _bait_."

     "Yep." Unrepentant, the Bull rolls his shoulders to stretch his neck. "Bait that ought to be able to fight back a lot better than a bunch of untrained civilians who didn't even know they were biotics before somebody slapped a slave collar on 'em. Bait with a fully-rated anchor, and fucking Alliance freighter, backing him up. Right?"

     That was... not incorrect. And the Bull was right too about Anders needing to know this. Should she tell Cullen, too? No, that decision was above Aveline's pay grade. But she pushed to her feet. "You're still a bastard, Bull. And you owe me for this."

     "Yeah, probably. Gonna send you what we know about these slavers; maybe that'll help. Oh, and tell Anders to hit me up again sometime, okay?" The Bull grins and winks. "Man, my dick _sang_ after he -- "

     Aveline hits the button to shut off the comm channel, but it's too late; she can't unhear it.

     Cursing to herself, she hits the comm again. "Captain? I need to see you. And no, it can't wait for my regular report."

 


	4. Chapter 4

     They go down to the shuttle bay.

     Carver doesn't bother to warn the staff that it's dangreous. If word about Cullen hasn't gotten around the ship by now, then the gossip network isn't doing its duty, and it's not Carver's job to make up the shortfall. He sees, though, the way eyes drift toward the elevator as they emerge, pause on Cullen -- out of habit, probably, since Cullen was once this ship's second-in-command -- then dart toward their stations or tasks to make sure everything is in order. Then the eyes come back, and widen as they remember the other reason why they need to worry about Cullen. Well, gossip's working then. That'll clear the hangar quick enough.

     Cullen looks about, a muscle in his jaw flexing, as Carver leads him toward the middle of the room. These were his soldiers, once, and it's clear he is uncomfortable being around them without rank and propriety to smooth the way. His eyes go to the viewports, where the stars are still, and he frowns, glancing about again with an experienced officer's eye. "We're still in port? But even with shore leave there should be more personnel than this on hand..."

     "Oh, right, nobody's briefed you," Carver says. "After that whole mess on Kanisa, Anders detoured to pick me up as soon as he got word that a C5-rated anchor was available. Now we're at -- "

     "If I may interrupt, Mr. Hawke," Cullen says, and Carver is startled silent by the coldness of this. Cullen's expression is worse; positively arctic, as he looks down his long nose at Carver. "My comment was... rhetorical. Old habit. There's no need to brief me; such information is on a military need-to-know basis. And surely the captain was concerned for _his ship_ , not me."

     "Maker, you're prickly," Carver says before he can think not to. Cullen's expression turns even more forbidding -- which Carver hadn't thought possible -- so he quickly adds, "And, well, Anders _said_ he was worried about you. He was so fixed on helping you that he didn't even notice you'd damaged the lateral struts 'til I pointed it out. It's _Specialist_ Hawke, by the way."

     Cullen inhales. "The struts?" He looks toward the ceiling as if he can see the ship's internal structure, his face a study in guilt. Then he grimaces toward the ports again. "I see now. Dry dock and a skeleton crew, then, to repair the damage done by my presence. I would say 'I told you so' to Anders, if I could bring myself to look him in the eye."

     Carver shakes his head, partly at himself. The tension between Cullen and Captain Anders is as obvious as daylight. Probably a personality mismatch; Anders seems the relaxed type when he hasn't got a ticking time-bomb on his ship, and Cullen seems the uptight type even when he isn't a _being_ a ticking time-bomb. But Carver dislikes those constant little self-deprecations that Cullen keeps throwing at himself.

     "It's not bloody classified, you know," he says. "Where we are. Captain's given you passenger status, so it's not like you can't just query the ship VI if you want to know."

     "I have no need to know," Cullen says primly.

     Carver stops and turns to face Cullen. "We're at fucking Arcturus Station, all right? There. Whoops, treated you like a person. Clumsy of me, huh." Cullen glares at him, but Carver has no patience for this. "Now come on, damn it. Probably only got an hour or two before you collapse again, and I want to use it."

     Carver turns -- but then he stops in surprise, as one of the dwarves in the hangar turns from a console and barks, "'Ere, now, civilian. What are you up to with our commander fresh out of sickbed?"

     Oh-ho. Carver tilts his head, wondering if he's going to have to fight the whole damned ship. _Wouldn't be the first time._ "Training. Who're you to care?"

     "Bodahn, there's no need," Cullen says. He's angry at Carver, and it shows, but he's a good officer; doesn't engage in disputes in front of the lower ranks. Then he grimaces again. "Forgive me; Lieutenant Feddic."

     Lieutenant Feddic blinks at this, then his scowl deepens. "You don't look good, ser, if I may say," he says, throwing a glare at Carver in between worried looks. "Are you sure you shouldn't still be in the med bay?"

     Carver eyes Cullen. It's true that Cullen doesn't look good; he's listing a little as he stands, and judging by the tightness around his eyes, he's got a headache brewing. That's his own fault, though, for demanding that Carver unanchor him. Now his nodes are flaring up again. Nothing to be done about it -- he's had as many meds as is safe -- so they might as well get in some basic practice since he's hurting anyway.

     "Please, Bod -- Lieutenant." Cullen holds up a placating hand, wearily. "I'm well enough. And you should not call me 'ser.'"

     "You're 'ser' whether you're ser or not, ser," the lieutenant says, lifting his chin a little in a kind of unvarnished stubbornness that Carver instantly likes. Although the little man then turns a withering look on Carver. "You'll be the anchor, then. Heard about you." Carver just bets he has. "Take proper care of our commander, do you hear?"

     "That's my job." Carver inclines his head toward the console behind him. "You're the procurement officer?"

     "Oh! Yes." Almost at once his glare softens; ah, a man who's proud of his work. "Have to tack on an extra fee for ship delivery, but I've got contacts and licenses for everything from Orlais to Omega. Were you needing something, since you came here so fast?"

     "Thanks, no; I do this a lot, got everything I need. But seeing as there aren't any others on the ship, how's your stock in biotic armor? He'll be needing a new set, soon." Carver jerks his head at Cullen.

     Cullen stiffens beside Carver, though he speaks evenly. "My own armor is more than sufficient for all forms of combat."

     Carver just manages to keep a sneer of of _Like you know anything about being a biotic_ off his face. Instead he tries for tact, at least with his mouth. "Oh? Well, we'll have a look at it tonight, then."

     "Tonight?" Both Cullen and Lieutenant Feddic frown at him, and then abruptly Feddic blushes and mutters something about needing to do inventory, before moving away. Whoops; rumor mill's working overtime, and somebody's been spreading dish about how biotics and anchors work out certain aspects of their professional relationship. It's not true -- most of it, anyway -- but of course these people, who've barely even seen biotics, will believe the worst. Cullen, though, just looks confused and angry. Well, he always looks angry.

     The confusion is a little concerning, though. Carver frowns himself. "In our quarters, yeah?"

     Cullen's eyes narrow, and all of a sudden Carver remembers that these people _don't_ know anything about biotics. Oh, shit.

     "'Our?'" Cullen's voice has gone dangerously soft.

     Fuck.

     Carver attempts neutrality. "Initiating the anchor link takes physical contact," he explains. Recites, really; it's standard Anchorate recruitment vid stuff, but clearly Cullen's never seen those. "Biotics use at this stage requires line-of-sight anchoring for proper function, understand? I've got you locked down for now, but the goal is to get you stable even when I'm not around. Got it?"

     "Yes," Cullen says. Obviously being under Carver's constant control doesn't bother him. "Explain 'our quarters.'"

     Carver sighs. "Healthy development of the link requires close proximity for at least twenty-two out of every twenty-four hours. Twenty meters," he adds, as soon as Cullen's mouth opens to ask what close proximity means. "That's my resting range. You can go a little farther if I'm awake and actively supporting you, but I gotta sleep sometime, and I can only hold you at twenty, if I do. Any farther apart than that and the anchor link will break under stress."

     Cullen flinches. Well, at least he knows to fear that, now. But he still doesn't look happy about it. Carver pushes on.

     "After that, the range will widen gradually as your brain adapts to the anchor and starts building its own support pathways. Training will help. But full anchorage -- where you won't need me around at all, unless something goes really wrong -- usually kicks in at, oh, six months? Or so."

     Cullen looks revolted. "Twenty meters. Maker, you mean to _live_ with me for half a year. Must I do this?"

     "It's standard procedure, yeah." Carver resists the urge to take offense at Cullen's expression. "I spoke to the captain already; he's got a two-room suite available for diplomatic guests and such, so we're both being moved into that. Could be worse; usually I've got to directly bunk with my biotics." He's pretty sure Cullen wouldn't stand for that. Carver also shifts in unease as he says this -- because, well. That weird feeling he had, back when he was forging the anchor link. He didn't feel it when reestablishing the link, but that might have been because Cullen wasn't active in the moment. If Cullen had been, and if that feeling had come back...

     _Can't be_ , he tells himself, firmly. _Not with this wanker. Maker's cock, please not him._

     Cullen has curled his lip while Carver cycles through denial. "Yes. I've heard of your kind's... proclivities."

     Normally Carver can take baby biotic sniping. They're naturally powerful people rendered helpless while they learn; most of 'em take the frustration of that out on their anchors, at least 'til they learn better. Carver's learned to let their bullshit just roll off of him -- but right now, while he's worried about... things... it's too much. He bristles. "What's that supposed to mean?"

     He knows full well what it means. Every Anchorate knows what Templars think about their kind. But if Cullen's arse enough to say it out loud, they're going to have words, right here and now.

     Cullen shakes his head, then abruptly moves past Carver. "We must begin this, as you said. Shall we?"

     Fucking _bastard_. And because Carver's lost his temper, however mildly, it feels like Cullen has scored a point in this contest they seem to be having. Well, Carver's fault for giving it up. Game's not lost, though.

     He turns to walk with Cullen, matching him pace for pace, which isn't any sort of unspoken challenge, nope, not at all. "Here," Carver says, when the reach about dead center of the hangar. There's a docked shuttle nearby, but that's not a bad thing. He glances around and sees with satisfaction that the crew complement present has whittled down to only three people: Feddic, another dwarf at the modding station who keeps muttering to himself and seems wholly engrossed in his work, and a Qunari fellow over in an alcove that he's thoroughly colonized: there's a pull-up bar, a soldering table, and a monomolecular greatsword sitting on a stand near its back. The fellow has folded his arms and stopped to blatantly watch, apparently unafraid. Well, Carver will just have to make sure he doesn't get too much of a show.

     "Right," Carver says. "So, first things first." He looks around and spies a little metal drinking mug that someone has abandoned on a crate nearby. That's against regs; if the hangar is ever decompressed, that mug will turn into a missile. Its owner must've been in a hurry to get away from the scary Class Five. Carver fetches the mug, then comes to stand maybe five feet away from Cullen, facing him and holding the mug forth on the palm of his hand. "Take this from me."

     Cullen lifts an eyebrow. "With biotics, I assume."

     "No, with your left ear. Of course with biotics."

     Cullen makes a disgusted noise, then sighs and fidgets, looking uncomfortable. "I haven't a clue how to begin, you realize. An explanation would be welcome."

     "It's biotics. No human language has words for how it works. A couple of the asari languages do, but I don't know those." Carver shrugs. "And it's not like I'm a biotic myself."

     Cullen blinks as if this has only just occurred to him. "Oh. Yes. Then how...?"

     "How do I train you? By telling you to take this cup from my fucking hand." He says it with deliberate rudeness. Cullen's lips turn white as he presses them together in affront. He looks at the cup, and -- yeah. That's what Carver thought. "Stop."

     Cullen glares at him. "I'm doing nothing."

     "You're looking at this cup like it's the worst thing in the bloody world," Carver points out. "Like I asked you to cut somebody's head off. 'Cept I know you're a Templar and you've probably done _that_ , so what you're doing now is worse."

     "What?" Now he looks honestly confused.

     Carver lowers the mug and steps up to him. Time to get this through his thick head now. "You can't _hate_ biotics and use 'em, Cullen. You can't fear 'em. Not if you ever want to have control."

     "I do not hate -- "

     "People don't become Templars if they're middle-of-the-road on biotics. I _know_ Templars. Hell, I almost became one myself. But I didn't because too many of the ones I met were fucked in some way or another. Had a bad experience that messed up their heads -- that, or they just got off on beating the shit out of biotics. Those ones were the worst, really. Fucking lyrium-ragers."

     He's searching Cullen's face as he says this -- and yeah, there it is. Cullen draws back, and even as his expression goes carefully blank, there's a telltale flex of his jaw that tells Carver all he needs to know. It was the eyes that make him suspect -- such pretty hazel eyes, but with those perpetual dark circles underneath. The doctor said Cullen's clean now, but Carver can tell he hasn't always been. That's a mark in Cullen's favor, because it's hard as fuck to shake dwarf dust once you're on it. Anyone strong enough to break a lyrium addiction is strong enough to handle becoming a late-onset Class Five, once he finally stops fighting the inevitable. But fact still remains: Cullen faltered at some point. Needed the false courage and strength of the lyrium, at least for a while. So Carver's got his number.

     And sure enough, Cullen lifts his chin a little. "I know well the evil that biotics can do. That's why I joined the Templars; I will not deny it."

     "And the good biotics can do?"

     A twitch of his upper lip. "Some few have acquitted themselves well, I suppose."

     How fucking generous. Carver shakes his head, turning to pace away. "Do you hate your sword?"

     "Biotics are not a sword."

     "Not what I sodding asked, but beyond the matter of versatility, they're not that different."

     Cullen folds his arms. He's so upright and intimidating like that, big tall sword of a man even without his armor, that Carver would know him for a Templar even without knowing anything else about him. But there's a weakness in that kind of stiffness, and Carver can't let it stand if he means to do right by Cullen.

     "Biotics are not inherently soldiers," Cullen says. "They are _victims_. The individuals who suffer from its poisoning are to be pitied. If they do harm with their powers, they are to be eliminated. If they abide by the law, they should be kept where they can do no harm to others. Together, ideally, as the humane solution."

     "You."

     Cullen tenses a bit, as if he hears the word as an accusation. "What?"

     "You keep saying 'they,' when you talk about biotics. They're not a 'they' anymore. They're you. You're one of them. You're biotic."

     That muscle flexes in Cullen's jaw again. Doesn't like that at all, huh. Carver rolls his eyes.

     "Anyway," Carver continues, "sure you want that 'humane solution?' All of you left to yourselves out there? Breeding? It usually gets passed down from mother to child, you know. And biotics die, see? Anchorate's been trying to come up with guidelines on handling biotic corpses, because burying 'em contaminates the ecosystem with eezo during decomposition -- which makes more biotics. Small colonies and such can't afford the special equipment to do that... So it might take a while, but eventually there'd be a whole planet of you."

     That shakes him. In an alarmed tone, Cullen stammers, "I... was told..."

     "Yeah. I've heard Templar rhetoric. Biotics are mutants, freaks of nature, mistakes. But guess what we call a mutation that survives and does all right on its own? Fucking _evolution_." While Cullen stands there frowning, Carver follows up with another punch. "You've got to start thinking of this as just another tool."

     Cullen shakes his head, stubbornly. "Biotics are far more inimical, and _alien_ , than any tool humankind has devised. You will never convince me otherwise. I require no... _partner_ to wield a sword, for instance."

     Ah. So that's the real problem. "Complex weapons sometimes need a team to be deployed proper, you know that. Also, every weapon you've been carrying into battle, your whole military career, is based on mass effect tech. Ditto your armor. Ditto this ship we're standing in. Remember how we figured that out from a bunch of alien ruins on our second colony?" Cullen winces. Well, he's not stupid; good. "So why's one kind of alien-influenced shit okay, and another not?"

     He expects that to be the end of it, but Cullen's face twists. The ugliness of the expression is brief, but so thoroughly hateful that it takes Carver's breath away. And it's not even focused on him. Cullen's gaze is somewhere else. Somewhen back.

     "Ships and swords cannot be evil," he says, very softly. "Biotics, though... They are people. They can be."

     There's a moment of silence, because Carver's got nothing to say to that. _Request his record_ , he thinks, as the haunted tone of Cullen's words reverberate. _That's trauma. Something bad. Something awful enough that a man who hates relying on anything but his own strength needed lyrium, for a while, to hang on._

     He lets the echoes fade while Cullen takes a deep breath and masters himself and shakes off whatever he's been thinking about. Then, when Cullen's eyes narrow in suspicion at Carver's silence, Carver replies, "No argument. Biotics can be evil as fuck."

     That has an effect that Carver hasn't been expecting. Cullen relaxes, at this validation of his fears. "I am... glad to know you can be reasonable."

     Dick. "I've worked with more biotics than you could ever have hunted, Templar. Grew up with two of 'em: my father and my twin sister. It was my father who taught me that biotics have to be held to a higher standard, because even though you can be evil just like anybody can be evil, you've got more power than the rest of us. You can do more harm. But also? More good." Cullen blinks at this; huh, that part never occurred to him. "You can do more good _if_ you train. So stop dithering, get over yourself, and take this cup from my hand." He lifts the cup again.

     Cullen sort of twitches, looks away -- then sighs and makes himself face Carver, and the cup. There's reluctance in every line of him, but he does it. Not stupid, and not a coward. He'll do, if he can just get over this Templar shite. But maybe it's not just that. "Perhaps you should put the cup down. I am... I would prefer not to cause injury."

     Good of him, but Carver shakes his head. "Nope. Need to get a gauge on your level. Your captain pegged you for C5. I think he's right, but best to let the expert check, up close."

     Cullen looks away again, a muscle in his jaw flexing visibly. "You were told of -- the incident on Kanisa."

     Poor fool. Carver shakes his head. "Yeah. Splattered some prisoners, I hear. The _cup_ , please, sometime today?"

     "How can you -- " Cullen shifts from foot to foot in prim agitation. "I could _kill_ you by accident."

     "You're a big fellow. Probably kill me with your bare hands if you put your back into it, and if I was stupid enough to let you. Why don't you?"

     Cullen looks appalled. "I've no desire to kill you, in any way!"

     Carver inclines his head. "So you're not likely to kill me if all you 'desire' to do is move a cup. Right?"

     Cullen actually takes a step back as the shock of realization sets in. "You are saying... that my biotics will respond to my will? But on Kanisa..."

     "Were you anchored, back on Kanisa?"

     Finally it dawns on him. Carver watches the realization start in his widening eyes and move over his whole face. When his posture shifts, it's actually sort of fascinating to watch. One moment he's tense, defensive, restless. Then, as he finally decides to act, Cullen shifts. He sets his feet, lowers his chin, and comes forward a little, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. Then he fixes the cup in Carver's hand with a look that ought to make the bloody thing jump for sheer terror. The familiar biotic's sheath of dark energy flickers into being around Cullen, unsteady and way too bright, but it's a good start. When he focuses on Carver, there's an instant where Carver's actually worried. Carver holds, though, and keeps his expression rock-steady, his manner calm. It's important that he show no fear right now. Cullen needs to see Carver's confidence. He needs to believe in his own self control, even though at the moment he hasn't really got any. For the moment, though, it's working, and as Cullen stands there blazing blue fire, stalwart and determined, it's awesome, and maybe even a little beautiful.

     It's also too fucking much. Bloody Templars, making a righteous crusade of everything. Cullen's biotics crawl over Carver's hands and finally find the cup, and in the next instant the cup shoots up into the air, blurring away to bury itself in the ceiling with a dull, metal-rending _thunk_.

     Cullen jerks in surprise, the light-sheath flickering out around him as his concentration falters. They both stare up at the ceiling. It's panels of reinforced metal, depressurization-grade, and the cup is thorougly punched into it. The edges of the panel are smoking a little, and something behind it sparks once. Pitifully.

     Carver sighs. "That went well."

     "I- I'm sorry," Cullen blurts, looking horrified. "Maker, I didn't mean -- "

     "S'fine. The Anchorate's got funds to reimburse the Alliance for stuff like this. I'll talk to Anders about it. Important thing is, you activated your biotics at will, and did a thing you meant to do. Uh, mostly." But it's not quite right, though, Carver sees. Cullen's still active, his right hand glowing as he flexes it and stares at the ceiling-embedded cup. Is he thinking about pulling the thing free? He'll rip the whole bloody ceiling open, if he tries.

     So Carver goes over to him and takes his flaring hand. Cullen starts and jerks his gaze away from the ceiling to focus on Carver, and that should really be enough to shut him down; distraction works great on baby biotics, usually.

     But something entirely different happens. Cullen flares, instead, his glow brightening and spreading to suffuse his whole body again. And this time the dark energy envelope slides halfway up Carver's forearm as well.

     It's fine. Doesn't hurt; it just feels like a light prickling along his skin. A buzzy stingy sensation. There's no intent behind it, Carver can tell. Cullen looks alarmed, though, and that's not good. He's too freaked out by his own biotics; they're going to have to try some exposure therapy or something to ease the near-phobia he's got. In the meantime, Carver nods to Cullen. "Remember what I said. New sixth sense, right? Imagine if you'd been fed nothing but pap your whole life, then suddenly got to taste food with seasoning and texture. That's just your biotics wanting a little taste, is all."

     Cullen shakes his head at this, but it does seem to calm him a little. "I- I did not mean to." He blushes suddenly, probably at the idea that he is _tasting_ Carver, and Carver has to fight not to grin. He's a wanker, but a pretty one, and actually sort of cute when he gets like this.

     But it's probably not a good idea to point out to Cullen that some part of him, at least, _does_ mean to taste Carver, or his biotics wouldn't be doing this. Because Cullen's not ready for a lot of things, and because Carver really doesn't like the way the buzzy sting of Cullen's biotics has started to feel nice on his skin. Vibratey, sort of. A rhythmic, gentle caress -- and it's inching, slowly, up his fucking arm. Yeah, no, time to end the lesson.

     Carver makes a cuff of his free hand and pushes that down his arm, amping up a little while he does so. It's like pushing down a sleeve; Cullen's biotics roll off him, and then Carver grasps his hand and shuts him down. The dark energy vanishes like a snuffed candleflame. Cullen starts again, just a little, but he seems more fascinated than alarmed.

     Carver turns and lifts the slightly-longer hair at the back of his head, so that Cullen can see the small, flesh-colored amp nestled there, just under the occipital bump. "Serrice Nanoxenologics. Modified L3, like I said." He lets it go and faces Cullen again. "You can't hurt me with biotics, not directly. I've been an anchor since I was a child, and I'm fucking good at it. So relax. The calmer you can be while you're using biotics, the more control you'll have."

     "I..." And Cullen takes a deep breath, swallowing. "Yes. Yes, I see."

     Progress. "Now, there's one more thing I want to tell you, and then we'd best get you back to the infirmary. Your pain meds are gonna wear off any minute now."

     Cullen frowns. "My last dose was only two hours ago."

     "Biotic metabolism. You churn through stuff faster than regular folks. Anyway. 'Biotics will serve what's best in me, not that which is most base.' Say it."

     Cullen blinks, then repeats the words. It's strange to hear them in his mouth. Always strange to hear those words in other mouths, other voices, but at least Cullen comes closer to the solemnity and inflection that Carver misses hearing so much. "Is that a motto of the Anchorate?" Cullen asks.

     "No." Carver snorts at the idea of the Anchorate, which means well but which is full of dithering idiots apart from the Bull, coming up with anything so firm as a motto. "It's something my father used to say. He was a C5, too -- like you definitely are, by the way -- and he lived those words. I figure the more biotics who do, the better off the galaxy will be, so I teach it to all of mine."

     With a blink of surprise, Cullen slowly nods. "I see the wisdom in that statement. Your father was wise, f -- ." He stops before adding _for a biotic_ , Carver guesses, which is a start. He's trying. "...Wise. Thank you."

     "S'my job. Said I was here to take care of you, didn't I?"

     Cullen stares as if Carver has said this in an untranslated alien language. What's that about? Why's he so unnerved about what Carver just said? Crazy person shite, Carver decides. With this one, it's always going to be crazy person shite.

     They start back, and Carver sees that he gauged it just right. By the time they reach the medbay level, Cullen is visibly grimacing and rubbing at his temples, and his color's off again. When he stumbles coming out of the elevator, Carver automatically catches him and puts a shoulder under his. They get him back to the medbay, where the ship's doctor who doesn't know squat about biotics and resents Carver because he does, diagnoses Cullen with acute fatigue. It works well-enough, though Carver takes care before he leaves to pre-order a carb-heavy breakfast for Cullen in the morning. He's a big boy, with growing biotics.

     And as soon as Carver gets to their new shared quarters where his footlocker has been tossed into a corner, he shuts the door and leans against it, cursing to himself and chafing his forearm and praying desperately that the shakes subside soon.


	5. Chapter 5

     It is unbearable that Cullen should be dependent on a terrorist.

     He stands now in the apartment that he must share with this... anchor, curling his lip as he looks around. _Terrorist_ , his mind substitutes for "anchor," though he has taken care to avoid applying the label out loud. Hawke is obviously belligerent and undisciplined, so it is left to Cullen to manage their tempers, since fighting on a ship is a cashiering offense for an officer. And in any case, no Anchorate can be trusted to behave with honor. Anchorate ships attack Templar containment sites whenever they find them, declaring them illegal according to Council law -- and because the Alliance is not strong enough to withstand Council economic sanctions or military intervention, the Templars are not permitted to strike back against Anchorate members in retaliation. The Anchorate has even sought to have the _Templar Order_ itself declared a terrorist group -- for doing its Maker-given duty. For trying to protect the human race from an alien threat.

     It is unbearable, and yet Cullen must bear it for fear that Hawke will unanchor him again and leave him gibbering amid his own misfiring senses. (He would endure that -- he has endured worse, though not by much -- if it did not also threaten the ship.) So Cullen stalks through the guest apartment, eying the signs of Hawke's habitation with disfavor and feeling the muscles tighten in his jaw and the back of his neck as he does so. On one counter is a dirty plate from the ship's mess. Soldiers are not permitted to eat in their quarters, but Hawke is a civilian, and clearly cares nothing for propriety or cleanliness. He has installed a pull-up bar at the entrance to his room, which would be admirable if there were not already perfectly serviceable exercise facilities in the cargo hold. Too precious to work out with the rank and file, no doubt. The bedroom beyond the doorway is a wreck: unmade bed so rumpled that the sheets trail onto the floor, open bottle of whiskey on the nightstand with no glass in sight, Anchorate jacket carelessly draped over the chair. His footlocker is in order, at least, sealed to the wall so that it does not obstruct the floor and will not create a hazard if there's an emergency. Otherwise, though, the room is a mess. The man is a mess. Cullen does not approve.

     More troubling, however, is what Cullen sees when he presses his fingers against the personal-effects cabinet and it automatically slides out to reveal cleaned, polished armor. Arms and standard gear is kept down in the armory, on level five, but officers may use their own customized sets, provided they do not interfere with battle readiness. Cullen's own set has been transferred to this cabinet: a metallic-sheen silver breastplate chased in gold and red matched by the red stripe on the right pauldron and vambrace that marks Cullen's N7 status. It is an old-fashioned style for modern ceramics, deliberately evocative of ancient metal armor; Templars are encouraged to wear this style in order to remind viewers of the Order's history and honor down the ages.

     (He fingers the small embossed sword-in-flames on the left shoulder, and thinks, _I must remember to have that removed when next I put in for a refit._ )

     (It does not hurt to think this. Much.)

     Cullen is unsurprised to find that Hawke has his own custom set, in the next drawer down. There's something about Hawke's build and movements; Cullen is almost certain that he's served time in the military, probably as a soldier or sentinel. And he did mention almost becoming a Templar himself, which is curious. His armor is more modern in design, although there's a whiff of vintage styling here too. His breastplate is also silver and metallic, though blue-chased, with bold lines running down the belly plates; there's gunmetal gray flex-ceramic on the flanks and cuisses. The breastplate and pauldrons are huge and reinforced in an odd way. Fascinated despite himself, Cullen touches one and feels an odd thrum through his fingers that makes him withdraw his hand immediately. Some kind of generator? Perhaps it supports his anchor implant somehow. The Order has never been able to take apart Anchorate armor for study. Perhaps Cullen should run scans.

     He does not, however, because he has seen that Hawke's right pauldron and vambrace also bear a red stripe. Impossible as it should be, Carver Hawke is a bloody N7 too.

     Cullen is still staring at this when the apartment's door bleeps. "Come," he says, then finally drags his eyes away from the armor to face his captain for the first time since before the Kanisa mission.

     Cullen does not dislike Anders. He's seen the man in battle, and knows him to be brave and skilled with a pistol and omni-staff, even though by training Anders is actually a medical doctor. Somewhere along the way -- they have never felt easy enough with each other to speak of the past -- Anders gave up his medical career and retooled himself as an infiltrator, impressing the brass enough to work his way into command. Cullen respects Anders, though his unorthodox decisions and laxity on discipline frequently grate, and the matter of their deep philosophical disagreements is occasionally an issue. (Anders is deft at deflecting arguments, though Cullen is never quite certain whether this is passive aggression or diplomacy. He is grateful for it, nevertheless.) They have shared cautious beers on shore leave, and wary dinners in the mess, which is more than Cullen can say for most other people of his acquaintance.

     Still... Cullen has never trusted Anders. Nor, he feels certain, does Anders trust him. The awareness of this remains ever between them, a wall of tension that both have found ways to work around. One need not like one's superior to respect him, or to work together as professionals.

     _Anders said he was worried about you!_ Hawke's words, echoing in his memory, make Cullen frown to himself.

     "Well, you're not dead and neither are we, so I suppose everything's all right now," Anders says as a hello, smiling to show that it's a joke. Cullen sighs, long used to Anders' inappropriate humor, but nods in a return of the greeting, gesturing Anders toward the room's couch and chairs.

     "Not dead," Cullen agrees, moving to sit on the couch when Anders takes a chair. And though he knows how Anders will react, he inhales to steel himself. "Captain, regarding the struts -- "

     "Hah," Anders says, grinning. "I bet Alistair ten credits you'd apologize for the bloody struts before I could ask how you were feeling. He thought you'd do small talk first. The fool."

     Cullen grimaces. "The ship is in dry dock because of me."

     "The ship isn't a floating debris field around Kanisa because of you, Cullen." When Cullen frowns, Anders rolls his eyes. "Maker's Breath, man. You actually managed to keep your _Class Five_ biotics to a low boil long enough for us to find you a suitable anchor. Don't you give yourself any credit for that?"

     Cullen wills his hands not to clench into fists on his knees. "I expect no less of myself, ser."

     "Oh, for -- " Anders shakes his head. "You never change, do you? I suppose I shouldn't have expected otherwise." And before Cullen can really process that, the fact that Anders _actually expected Cullen to somehow change as a person now that he is a biotic_ , Anders moves on. "I'm glad to see you up and about, in any case. Came to see you in the medbay a few times after we reached orbit around the station. They wouldn't let us actually dock." He sighs. "Unanchored biotics are considered a biohazard."

     Cullen nods. "Given that I was on the brink of losing control entirely, I commend the station staff's adherence to regulations."

     "You would." Anders shakes his head. "Anyhow, once Specialist Hawke had you in hand, I visited, but you were barely conscious." He sobers and leans forward to balance his elbows on his knees. "How _are_ you, Rutherford? All of this... It's a shock to me. I can't imagine how it is for you."

     Cullen looks at his hands. "I keep hoping to awaken from the nightmare," he admits. "It does not feel... I still struggle to accept the reality of it. I have prayed nightly for the curse to be lifted from me, and when I wake every morning to find that it remains, I want only to stay in my bunk and weep." Too late he remembers his audience and flushes, but Anders' slow nod is compassionate, somehow. Which may be why Cullen finds himself confessing the whole burden in a blurted rush, his hands clenching into fists on his knees. "And yet I cannot afford denial, or collapse. Lives will be lost if I cannot face this horror, and master it quickly. And so." He spreads his hands in helplessness.

     Anders nods again. "You're handling it better than most late-onsets," he says. "A lot of them... well. Let's just say I'm particularly impressed that the _Justice_ is still here. I've never been more grateful for your stubbornness than when I saw you in the brig, _willing_ your biotics to quiescence. Amazing, really."

     Cullen wants to be glad of the praise. And yet, the struts. "I should have done better."

     "You've done amazing. And now you're being trained!" Anders grins, and it is obscene. Cullen stares at him in confusion. "That anchor of yours seems a rough-edged fellow, but competent. He'll have you combat ready in a trice, I'll wager."

     Maker's Breath. Anders thinks Cullen's biotics are a _good_ thing. It's horrible. Cullen shakes his head. "I mean to endure anchoring only long enough to gain stability," he says. "When I am -- safer, I'll go to the nearest Templar containment facility."

     Anders' smile falters. "Why in the Void would you go to one of those bloody prisons, Rutherford? I know the Templars justify kidnapping people because unanchored biotics are dangerous, but if you _aren't_ dangerous anymore, it makes no sense."

     "There have been no long-term studies of eezo exposure on human populations," Cullen says, trying for patience. Anders is no Templar, and is barely Andrastean. The days when the Chantry could have heretics executed or forcibly converted are long past, so many do not understand the faith. He has vowed to represent it well. "The Order does _detain_ unanchored biotics, for their own good, but it recommends detention for all biotics, anchored or not, until the full danger of eezo contamination is known. I could be... radioactive. Contagious. I may have been all along. After the exposure, I believed the doctors when they said it was safe for me to go among uncontaminated people, but clearly they were wrong, and I -- "

     Anders has rolled his eyes. "Every other species in the galaxy has biotics," he says. "We _know_ how the process works, man, for the Maker's sake. There are thousands of years of studies explaining it -- the Chantry just rejects those because the knowledge comes from non-human sources. You can't be contagious, all the eezo in you has coalesced into nodules in your nervous system. _That's what's making you biotic._ Honestly!"

     Cullen gets to his feet and begins to pace, too agitated to hold still. It is worse to think of the eezo in his body, crawling all over his nervous system, a mutagenic pestilence twisting his brain and flesh to serve its unknowable purposes -- Feverishly he scrubs at his forearms, wishing he could shuck off his biotics the way Hawke did. Anders watches him do this for a moment, and Cullen can practically feel the man's pity. He hates this almost as much as he hates the eezo.

     "Alien studies could be wrong," Cullen snaps, because he needs to say _something_ or he will burst.

     "And the universe could collapse in on itself at any given moment. The non-zero probability of a thing happening should not be your _guiding principle_ , man. For Andraste's sake, you sound like a Flat-Earther, or a witch hunter, or those benighted monsters who put children into reeducation camps if they happened to fancy someone of the same gender! Just because you're afraid of what you don't understand -- "

     "I should be dying," Cullen says. He cannot get past this. "They told me I would die young of the eezo. I was _prepared_ for that."

     Anders sighs. "Oh. Yes. It _is_ rather hard to live on after one has prepared for martyrdom, isn't it?"

     "What?" Cullen rounds on him, certain that this is somehow an insult.

     "Rutherford." Anders is using that tone of patient reason that Cullen's seen him try on children and underevolved sapients. "You can't be upset that instead of _deadly systemic cancer_ , you've developed biotics? That just... isn't reasonable. And on every subject _except_ biotics, you're the most terrifyingly reasonable man I know. But do you truly hate them so much? Rutherford. _Cullen_. Would you really rather be dead?"

     Cullen stares at his captain and thinks, _Yes_. But Anders is right; that isn't reasonable.

     "I just don't understand it," he hedges instead. "That this rarest of all things should happen to _me_. And I do not hate biotics. It's only... I know what they're capable of. They -- "

     And here he stumbles again, as Hawke's words tumble through his memory. Biotics are no longer _they_ , but he cannot bring himself to say _we_. Not yet. _Maker, please, let me feel human a little longer, even if it is pure illusion._

     In the silence, he hears Anders let out a long sigh that sounds reluctant. "Well... I have to tell you something. When you were, ah, incapacitated on Kanisa, I got access to your medical records due to the emergency."

     Cullen frowns at Anders' obvious discomfort, uncomprehending at first, until he realizes what Anders must have seen in those records. Maker of all, his captain knows about the lyrium. Cullen stares at him, queasy with horror.

     And Anders quickly holds up a hand as if to reassure. "I did inform the doctor, but beyond that it's none of my business what you did prior to your posting on the _Justice_ , so long as you're clean now. Which I also know you are, thanks to those records. But you needed to know that I knew. And..." He hesitates, then looks at the wall for a moment. It's an odd sort of gesture, and Cullen doesn't know what to make of it. But Anders adds, "And you should know that you're not the only one who's needed... help, so to speak. Of a... societally unacceptable nature. So. There."

     Is he saying that he's an addict, too? One is never _former_ , with some things. But no; Anders was a medical doctor, and is a captain. Both roles require frequent and intensive drug testing -- and more importantly, the brass would never have given him a command if he had that sort of history. There were objections to Cullen's promotion to Commander for that very reason, though the Knight Commander's recommendation, as a high-ranking Chantry official, overrode them.

     And Cullen is momentarily distracted from his misery by the sudden chilling realization that someone has surely told Meredith about Cullen's biotics, by now --

     "Well," Anders says, exhaling, "that was possibly the most awkward thing I've ever said to you, so let's change the subject, why don't we. Tell me about your anchor? It's been difficult to get a clear impression of this Hawke since he spends all his time with you."

     Cullen wrenches his mind from thoughts of _Meredith will condemn me for not immediately going to the Eden Prime facility, she will hunt me down herself, she will kill me as an example, and she will be right to do so_. "What? Oh." Hawke is the subject of their discussion. Hawke, whom Cullen must constantly struggle to keep _out_ of his thoughts. Hawke is in the mess now, eating. Cullen is aware of exactly how far away he is -- only one level down, well within the twenty-meter radius -- and precisely what he's doing, which is altogether disturbing on a whole new level. Beef stroganoff, tedious military food staple of the modern ages. Cullen tolerates the stuff but Hawke actually relishes it, savoring each bite and murmuring appreciation to himself now and again. If Cullen lets his mind drift a little, sink deeper into the link between them, he can even taste the stuff, tart and meaty on Hawke's tongue.

     _Can he sense me to the same degree?_ Cullen wonders, miserably. He has already learned that distracting himself eases the sharing -- a fortunate thing to discover this morning, when Hawke took over the toilet for a while. Still, the connection is always there, and moments of strong emotion or concentration amplify the sharing of sensation. _Andraste save me if he takes a lover --_

     "He is... uncouth," Cullen says, resisting the urge to say about a dozen other words. But that's uncharitable. Hawke has helped him, and seems determined to continue doing so despite Cullen's contempt for him. Cullen will hold Hawke to account only for his own actions, not for the awful circumstances that are no one's fault. "I agree that he knows his business. But I do not trust him."

     Anders looks amused. "You don't trust anyone, Rutherford." Cullen blinks and looks at him in surprise. "But trust should be earned, in any case. I imagine that will be a hard task for you, though? Him being Anchorate, and all."

     "They are terrorists." It's almost an automatic call-and-response. Anchorate, terrorists. Terrorists, Anchorate.

     "Oh, yes, terrorists, because they object to the extrajudicial detention of Alliance citizens at black-site facilities overseen by religious fanatics." Cullen scowls at him, but Anders sighs and stretches as he gets to his feet, either ignoring Cullen's anger or not caring about it. "Cullen, not all Anchorate members are the same, any more than all devout Andrasteans are. If you get to know him -- and maybe don't call him a terrorist to his face -- you might find him tolerable company. Especially since you're going to _have_ to tolerate him for a while."

     Cullen sets his jaw and lifts his chin. "As you say, ser."

     "Ugh, Rutherford, I wish you'd just tell me to go to the Void instead of going formal like this." Anders shakes his head. "Well. That's my part done for Maker and Marches. Anyhow, here's something that should cheer you up. Hawke says that as long as he's around, you're stable enough to return to duty. So... I could use my Commander back. I'm reinstating you -- at least until you pack yourself off to secret biotic prison for no good reason." He grimaces.

     Cullen inhales. This is a thing he never expected to hear. "I'm eager to return to duty, Captain. But... are you certain? I'm -- anchored." He grimaces. "But untrained as yet, and unregistered still."

     "Hawke says, and I quote, 'Cullen seems the sort who'll learn better under fire, so let's go find some fire to throw him under.'" As Cullen blinks at this, Anders chuckles and scratches at his stubble. He never keeps to regulation clean-shavenness. "I like him. Rough edges, perhaps, but at least you know where you stand with him. I'll invite him to dinner, sound him out. Would you like to attend too?"

     "No, thank you, Captain." It will be a welcome respite from Hawke.

     Anders lifts an eyebrow at Cullen's vehemence, but then shrugs. Then he turns to go -- but hesitates, glancing back at Cullen over his shoulder. "...A thing to remember, Rutherford. You are still human, you know."

     Cullen stiffens. It is as if Anders has somehow, suddenly, seen right to the core of his deepest fears. "I..." But he can think of nothing to say to this.

     Anders nods to himself, just a little. "I know the Chantry teaches that biotics aren't people," he says. "Or at least not the same kind of people as the rest of us. But the Chantry would still be preaching that human beings are the only sapient life in the universe if some of that non-human sapient life hadn't come down to ask for a tour of the Grand Cathedral in Orlais." He rolls his eyes. "I won't speak against the Chantry beyond that, because I know how you are. But do remember that if the Maker created all things, then biotics must be a gift of His, too. Don't you think?"

     Cullen swallows, though his throat feels too tight. It is heretical thinking, and he knows the doctrinal rebuttal to it, but... but oh demons, how he needs it. He _needs_ to believe that the Maker and His Bride have not forsaken him. He has committed so many sins, but if he can still be worthy of forgiveness... He has to look away to reply. "Thank you, ser. I... will think on what you've said."

     Anders smiles in a strange, sad way. "Then maybe there's hope for you, yet, Rutherford." Then he straightens, familiarity falling away from him like a cloak. Cullen has always admired Anders' ability to suddenly _become the captain_ , like this. "I'll expect your return to duty at 0600 tomorrow, Commander. Repairs are done, so we're shipping out back to Kanisa. I've got a possible lead on those kidnapped colonists; we'll find them, yet. I'll write you a brief tonight with the details."

     "Ser." Cullen draws himself up and salutes. Anders smiles again, then sees himself out. And Cullen must stand there for a long moment in Anders' wake, overwhelmed and shaken, trying to pull himself back together.

     He barely notices when the comm bleeps with the signal for a call. Automatically, though, he goes over to the desk terminal and sits down, not even bothering to check the identicode before he approves the connection.

     The face of Knight Commander Meredith appears before him. Cullen stares at her, thoughts and blood freezing. "Knight Captain," she prompts, after a moment of silence. The title shocks his mind back into functioning, though, because it's wrong.

     "Forgive me, Knight Commander," he says, lowering his gaze in shame. She has relied upon him much, these past few years. By becoming a biotic, he's let her down. "It is only that... That cannot be my title, anymore."

     "So it is true. I'd hoped this was only a rumor, or some alien misinformation campaign, or something else." The sorrow in her voice strikes him to the bone. "Cullen: I am so sorry."

     Cullen has to bow his head before tears threaten. He speaks quickly, so that his throat will not close. "I'm doing what I can to, to mitigate," he stammers. "Mitigate... the damage. I have been assigned an anchor. I am learning self control, with his... help." He shudders and chokes out, his voice breaking, "I tried to do it on my own, but... and I _prayed_ , but..."

     "I know, Cullen. I stood vigil upon you, remember, at your knighting. I know your devotion."

     Her reassurance of his faith is a balm that Cullen needs as much as Anders' reassurance of his humanity. He swallows, composing himself. "Yes... yes. But as soon as I can safely be free of the anchor, I mean to come to the Eden Prime facility and intern myself. If I cannot serve the Maker as a Templar, I can at least submit to His will."

     Meredith looks relieved. "I knew that you would do what was right. But until you come to us, Cullen..." She sobers, and then looks away to key in some sort of signal. The display flashes red around the edges. Top-level encryption, of the sort that only Chantry officials can use. "We must speak quickly. I'm running a script that will fill in inane converation for the next five minutes, in case of data miners. In the meantime, I have orders for you."

     "Orders? But -- "

     She gestures sharply, and Cullen falls silent out of long habit. "I understand that your anchor is not merely half-trained Alliance personnel, but a specialist attached to the Anchorate itself. Your situation was actually unique enough to interest them. A fortunate thing."

     What? "That's correct, Knight Commander. But what -- "

     "Hawke. _Carver_ Hawke." Meredith scans through some data off-screen, her expression tightening with satisfaction. "I would rather it were Marian, given her visibility and influence, but the brother will serve just as well for this purpose. They are both highly ranked in the Anchorate. Enough to know the locations of multiple Anchorate 'Circles,' as they call them, where biotic children are raised en masse away from parental or Chantry influence, and later unleashed upon the galaxy. Thanks to you, we now have a unique opportunity."

     Then Cullen understood. "You mean for me to locate and expose these facilities?" The Chantry has long maintained that the Circles, being secular places that refuse the Chantry's authority, can only be dens of iniquity. The Anchorate is dedicated to exploring the limits of what biotic humans are capable of through dangerous experimentation and lax morality; their Circles are where the worst of this happens. "I have met a rather tenacious reporter from Westerlund News -- "

     "No, Cullen. I mean for you to find the locations of these Circles and feed them to me. Then we will annul them."

     Cullen blinks. Surely she means _raid_ them -- restrain the anchors, take the biotics to Templar containment, destroy any data gleaned from their unholy experiments. The Circles must be dealt with, every Templar knows that, but annulment means... surely she misspoke.

     "Hawke knows I am -- was -- a Templar," Cullen says, uneasily. "He will not share such information easily."

     Meredith leans forward. "Then _convince_ him, Knight Captain."

     Cullen frowns. "How might I do such a thing, Knight Commander?" Is she suggesting that he beat the information out of his own anchor? Without Hawke, Cullen might destroy the ship.

     "These Anchorates proselytize like lay sisters. He will try to bring you around to his way of thinking, I'm certain of it. Let him believe he is making headway." Meredith shrugs. "Listen to his dogma. Agree with him. Give him proofs of your sincerity; here, I will permit this." She taps something on her console, and the location of a Templar resupply cache downloads itself to his omni-tool. "'Raid' that, when you feel it might convince. There will be no traps or spyware hidden in the cache; I'll see to it. _Seduce_ him, Knight Captain. By any means necessary. And by doing so, prove yourself a true Templar."

     It is suddenly, painfully clear that Meredith is manipulating him.

     He does not want to believe it, but Cullen can deny the evidence no more than he can his biotics. Calling him Knight Captain when he can no longer serve, telling him to prove himself when he has already done so a hundred times over... It's so transparent as to be laughable. But Cullen understands also: she has had no leash to hold him, since he gave up the lyrium in order to serve on an Alliance ship. He did that so that he might bring the light of the Maker to the galaxy's distant corners, and she _said_ she approved of his choice, but he has felt the distance between them growing ever since. And now...

     Surely she meant raid, not annul. She cannot have forgotten the Templars' duty so much.

     And yet. _Is_ Cullen not a Templar, at least in his heart? Does not the Chant bless those who stand against corruption and wickedness? Even if Cullen is a biotic now, he can still do that. He can stand, by himself if he can no longer fight alongside his brethren. He can be true to the Maker.

     So, though his heart aches that Meredith would use him so... Cullen sets his jaw and puts his fist to his chest in the Templar salute. She will see only the shadow of the gesture, but it isn't for her anyway.

     "Yes, Knight Commander," he says. "It shall be as you say."

     She nods, pleased. "Report to me no more than once per month, to reduce the chance of discovery. I am also sending you a code for a high-level encryption suite and extraction program. Once you find the coordinates, at any time, upload them with that, and the data packet will be sent directly to one of our bases. There's a script in it that will then erase any record from your ship's comm that it was sent. You will not be implicated. Indeed, perhaps you'll be able to get more out of this Anchorate dog before you're done."

     "Perhaps, Knight Commander."

     She exhales and smiles. It is sincere in its sadness, he sees at once. That's the most awful part of this. He can see that her regret over losing him to the corruption of biotics is genuine. There was a time not long ago when Cullen imagined that he loved Meredith, and perhaps he still does. Moments like this are why.

     "You were always the best of us, Cullen," Meredith says. "I wish you luck in your mission. And then when it is done and you come back to us... we will all welcome you home."

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes of minor hysteria (ha! ha ha!):
> 
> -I'm gotten some comments from folks who've never played Mass Effect and are now intrigued because of this story. Please understand that I am pulling a lot of this completely out of my ass! Biotics exist in ME, but they don't need anchors; all that is just me throwing science fictional sex pollen on the plot. There is no repressive xenophobic theocracy in the MEverse -- or at least it's not running the Alliance, there. That's me throwing politics on the plot. Ha ha!
> 
> -Also, I am completely pantsing this story, at this point. I had a vague outline at the beginning, but I'm past that point, and I haven't taken the time to stop and re-outline as I should. Which means I have no idea where this is going! You are forewarned. Ha ha ha!
> 
> -(Cries)

     Usually when Carver's trying to integrate into a new placement, he spends his first few days with his biotic, then he picks the biggest soldier possible on the site and sits down with them in the mess. That way any rumors and whatnot that have been brewing amid the crew have a chance to come right out. He's gotten punched a few times, sure, but more often he's had a good frank conversation, dispelled the rumors, and sometimes even held an impromptu education session about Biotics: Probably Not An Alien Menace So Just Fucking Relax, Okay, Maker's Arse You People.

     The biggest fellow on this ship is that Qunari bloke from the shuttle bay. _Probably_ Qunari; not many Tal-Vashoth make it into the Alliance military, but there are always a few. And though Carver tends to like Qunari -- always know where you stand with them -- he veers away from his usual practice this time. There's another bloke he wants to see, sitting by himself in a corner and looking rather hangdog as Carver strolls in. Blond white dude, younger than Carver, soldier build but somehow unfinished-looking. Notes say he's one Private Keran.

     Carver sets his tray down and sits before bothering to ask, "Mind if we share?"

     Private Keran's caught by surprise, jerking out of whatever reverie he's been in while Carver got his plate and grub. Everyone else in the mess noticed Carver; he noted the dip in the conversation volume, and felt the eyes tracking him. Keran, though, has been in his own head. "Oh," he starts to say, and then he realizes who Carver is, his eyes widening. "Oh. Uh... oh."

     "Thanks," Carver says, as if that was an affirmation, and shovels a few forkfuls of beef stroganoff down before he gets started. Always best to get a little food in before risking a broken jaw. "So, you're ship's anchor, right? Keran?"

     And poor Keran _flinches_. Maker, what have they been saying to him? "Yes," Keran says, miserably. "For whatever that's been worth. You're the Anchorate, Specialist Hawke. Class Five-rated."

     "Yeah," Carver says. He rolls his shoulders a little to release tension. "No need to salute or anything. I'm a civilian, if you hadn't heard. How long you been an anchor, Private?"

     "E-eighteen months." Keran looks at his lap. "But I couldn't do anything for the Commander. I tried, but..." He grimaces. "I couldn't do anything."

     Carver eats some more stroganoff and nods, swallowing before he says, "Yeah, well, you probably never tried to quell a C5 before. Which, you know, you shouldn't have tried. Didn't they tell you anything in training about burnout flux?"

     "Well... yes. But I still thought..."

     "That it was a good idea to risk melting your brain? Because, no." Carver has to take a deep breath, cool himself down preemptively, before his next question. "Somebody order you to try that? The captain? Commander himself?"

     Keran's looking even more miserable. Maybe taking everything as a scold. "No, ser, neither. Captain Anders actually told me not to bother. That it was against regs for an anchor to step above their rating. But I'm the only anchor on the ship, and... I had to try. It's _the commander_."

     Oh-ho. Carver puts on a thoughtful air, but he actually is interested to know what Cullen's soldiers think of him. "Really? He's good enough to melt your brain for?"

     Another plate clatters onto the table, startling them both, and then Carver looks up at another big fellow wearing pilot's wings on his cap. "Yes," says Big Pilot Fellow, with an altogether forbidding look on his face. "Commander Cullen _is_ worth melting your brain for. He saved my life."

     "And mine," says another soldier at the next table over, a scowl writ deep on her face."

     "And mine!" says Keran, in pure anguish. And others, five or six, all over the mess. All of them now glaring at Carver.

     Things are off to a fine start! Carver's going to get his ass kicked by half the crew at this rate. Pleased, he sits back and gestures for Big Pilot Fellow to join them. Big Pilot Fellow blinks in surprise at this, then glances at Keran and apparently decides that Keran needs protecting from the weird civilian. He sits, looming a bit. Carver nods to him, then glances around the room and deliberately speaks to Keran loudly enough that they can all hear.

     "If Rutherford's that good an officer, then he wouldn't have wanted any of his soldiers throwing their lives away for nothing. Would he? A good officer would be upset if you died for him, needlessly." Keran frowns, but Big Pilot Fellow just sort of grimaces and reluctantly nods. Carver nods back. "So. C5 biotic? C1 anchor? That's a murder waiting to happen, right there. They tell you how the anchor implants actually work?" He knows they haven't. Alliance anchor training is shit.

     Keran frowns. "I... no."

     Carver looks around, and spies a woman at another table in light armor. "Oi, you. Over here." She frowns and points at herself. "Yes, _you_. Come on." The woman comes over. She's red-haired and so Orlesian that Carver can practically smell the despair ham. "Got a piece you can replace easily? Need to borrow it."

     "It isn't _borrowing_ if I'm going to need to replace it," the woman drawls in accented Standard.

     Carver grins. "Well, true. What if I offer to buy you a new piece from one of the custom shops?"

     "Perhaps we might see your coin, first, serrah."

     It's the most elegant _Fuck you, pay me_ Carver's ever heard, and he grins. Activating his omni-tool, he scrolls through his accounts and finds the one for petty cash, then picks an amount that's enough to buy anything in the Kassa series to her, wafting his omni-tool in her direction to complete the transfer. "There. _Now_ can I have a piece?"

     She smirks, then detaches a shin-guard before handing it over. "Thank you for the new magnetic boots you're about to buy me. I've had my eye on a lovely pair for some time: crimson, with a satin sheen."

     "Bet they'll be gorgeous on you." Carver winks -- it's habit to flirt, and he keeps it quick and omnidirectional enough that hopefully no one will feel like it's serious. Then he sets the armor piece down on the table, and brings up another application on his omni-tool. By now he has an audience; several of the soldiers have drifted over, beginning to form a crowd. Keran's gone still, his eyes downcast; yeah, some of the people picking on him are in this set. Well, Carver's hopefully going to solve that problem for him now.

     "Right, so. You all know about wavelengths and frequencies and such. Yeah? How an opera singer can break a glass?" He lifts his omni-tool and broadcasts a holo of two wavelength meters. He taps another key on his tool, and one of the meters brightens, its lazy wave-form going faster, the wavelength shortening. "Human ears can't hear it, but right now I'm emitting a sound wave at this armor. Could be a light wave, just don't want to burn anybody's eyes out. It's the vibrations that matter, here." The armor begins to jitter.

     "Maker," drawls Big Pilot Fellow, with false concern. "You've scared the poor thing, look at it shiver."

     Carver snorts, liking Big Pilot Fellow more. Then he dials up the amplitude and sheaths his hand in directed sound waves. His hand glows faintly because he's programmed his omni-tool to project a holographic representation of the waves. He moves his hand toward the armor piece, and it shifts away, still jittering.

     "So that's kind of how biotics work," he says. Everyone is watching now, fascinated. "The eezo in a biotic's body generates a dark energy waveform. As biotics learn to control it, they can move stuff about, twist the waves themselves, and so on. Bigger than this, 'course."

     "Big enough to almost destroy the ship, yes." This from the stern-faced Qunari.

     "Well, yeah." Carver inclines his head to concede the point. "Not gonna pretend it's not a potentially deadly weapon. So's sound, by the way, or light; all waveforms are energy, and energy can help or harm, depending on how you use it." At this, the Qunari inclines his head, conceding the point with a hint of irony. "But once Commander Rutherford learns to control it better, he'll be unleashing that on the ship's enemies, at least."

     "Would he be able to destroy _another_ ship?" asks a mouse-faced girl in the back, who doesn't look old enough to be out of short pants, let alone boot camp.

     "No. Biotics pretty much only works at short range." Carver shrugs. "I hear some asari high-spikers can do shields at a distance, but humans can't do that. Yet." He grins at her, and she blushes.

     "Explain anchoring," says the Qunari.

     "I was getting there, Maker's Breath, hang on." Carver now tunes the upper wave-meter. The sine curve of its wave quickens, and when the amplitudes match, both abruptly flatline. The jittering piece of armor grows still. "There. That's what anchors do at its most basic: We cancel the biotic waveform."

     Keran stirs at last, frowning. "I _tried_ ," he blurts. "Maker, how I tried. It hurt, though."

     "Yeah. Here's what was happening," Carver says. He adjusts the display. Now the bottom meter, which represents the "biotic" wave, is the same -- but the top meter's wave form is visibly much slower in amplitude, with shorter peaks and troughs. Numbers flash: the top meter has a max frequency of 10, while the bottom meter is at 50. "No match, no cancellation. And you were probably pushing to the limit of what you could handle." Carver pushes a slider to increase the frequency of the top meter's wave. As it approaches 10, they can all hear a faint whine, which rises in pitch and volume. The top meter's wave increases to frantic speed, and then a blur, though it still has no effect on the bottom meter. The instant Carver takes it up to 10.1, the pitch grows sharp enough to hurt everyone's ears for an instant, and Carver's omni-tool flashes the whole display red before shutting down the meter and replacing it with glaring letters: OVERLOAD.

     It's melodramatic, but it works. Carver looks around and sees winces, grimaces, visible discomfort. Right, so they get it now. To drive the point home -- because Keran _needs_ to know this, boy's got more heart than good sense or training -- he adds, "An anchor who goes beyond what their implant can handle burns out. Period full stop. If they're lucky, the implant just shuts down. If they're not lucky, the fucking thing has a flux surge -- _implodes_ , that is -- and takes the whole brain stem with."

     Keran looks ill. "Maker. I-I just thought the headache was stress." He touches the back of his head, self-consciously. "But... anchors are supposed to get better over time. I've been doing this for over a _year_."

     Carver resists the urge to roll his eyes and shuts down his omni-tool. "I've been at this for twenty, and Rutherford was a challenge." Rutherford is always going to be a challenge, because Rutherford is a git with way too much fucking power, but that's beside the point. "You do eventually learn to cancel waveforms even beyond what your wetware is built to handle, yeah. That's called resonating. But it's a _skill_ , and it's bloody difficult, and it takes additional training and constant practice to master. Speaking of practice -- how many biotics are on this ship, again?"

     Keran flushes -- but he's beginning to un-hunch at last, thank the Maker. "Oh. Um. Point taken."

     Now Carver leans forward. "But here's the thing. You saw somebody in need and you fucking _tried_. Lots of people would've run the other way, but you ran _toward_ trouble. That's what'll make you a great anchor, one day. Providing you get more training, and stop doing stupid shit that will melt your brain. Right?"

     Keran chuckles shyly, smoothing the hair down at the back of his head. "Right, ser. No melted brains, ser." Carver grins.

     "Aww, no melty brains, woulda liked to see that. Ya _hero_ ," teases a blonde woman, coming over to shove Keran's shoulder. She's an elf, Carver sees; there aren't many of those in the Alliance anymore, since offworld colonization opened up entire planets free of shemlen. After Keran bats ineffectually at her, she grins, stepping back to lean on another woman who is a dwarf in lab fatigues. "Still gonna noogie you tho, Ker, just for bein' a lump."

     "Are we _certain_ noogies are all right, though?" asks Big Pilot Fellow, narrowing his eyes at Keran as if examining him. "I don't want to melt his brain by accident. Perhaps you'd best confine your noogies to me, Sera."

     "You're too bloody _tall_ for noogies, Alistair. 'Cept when you're sitting down to pilot, and I don't want us landing in the sun or summat."

     "Landing in a sun _would_ be fun, though, you have to admit," Alistair muses. Carver stares at him, unsure if he's joking, though after a moment he decides that the fellow just does really earnest snark.

     Sera snorts, then seems to think about it. The dwarf under her elbow shakes her head and grabs her hand. "No noogies," she says to Sera. Then she grabs Alistair's hand as well. "No sun landings," she says to him, just as firmly. Then she drags them both off, as both "awww" in disappointment.

     Carver shakes his head in their wake and resumes eating. The crowd's already starting to disperse now that the show's over, but he feels like his point's made. Keran excuses himself because he's got a duty shift coming on, but he lingers long enough to say, softly, "Thank you, ser," once the others are far enough or preoccupied enough not to hear. Carver chin-waves back, and finally tucks in to his stroganoff. It's good. Way better than the shit he had at his last post. Nothing but turian chefs there, more concerned about chirality cross-contamination than taste -- and he was bloody glad for that, because he's eaten dextro by accident before and the diarrhea lasted for _days_. But turians were never sure what human food was supposed to taste or look like, so most of it ended up as basically overcooked slurry little better than nutrient paste.

     "Not bad," says a voice, and Carver looks up from gulping down his jello to see Captain Anders leaning against a wall not far off. He might've been there the whole time during Carver's explanation; quiet as a cat, the man is, when he wants to be. He straightens and comes to the table, smiling. "I'd been trying to figure out what to do about Keran's morale. Not usually my job, you see; Cullen handled personnel matters below the officer level. But here you are, taking care of it yourself."

     Carver shrugs, though he gestures politely for Anders to take Keran's spot if he likes. "Wasn't going to let them keep ragging on him. Too many young anchors get treated like shit for not being able to work miracles the minute they get up from the operation that plugs in their implant," he explains. "As if it's the _implant_ that makes them anchors, not anything in themselves. That's a general problem, though. Chantry won't let information about biotics be taught in schools, so nobody knows any-fucking-thing, and the Anchorate's got its hands full trying to get basic info out. I just do my part to shut down stupid shit when I see it happening."

     "I'm sure Keran's grateful." Anders doesn't sit, and Carver tries not to read anything into that. "Are you planning to recruit him to the Anchorate?"

     Carver blinks, sitting back in his chair and wondering what's behind the question. Is Anders Andrastean? Damn it, he's going to have to beg the Bull for personnel records on these people, before he stumbles into an inquisition. "Maybe," he admits. "Keran's got good instincts. With training he could make C3, or higher. But if he wants higher, he'll have to leave the Alliance to do the most good. Become an itinerant specialist, like me." Carver considers a moment, then throws a fishing line. "Not a lot of brass know biotics from bombs -- and too many forget biotics are people. Anchors end up having to choose between doing their jobs and following orders. Never ends well."

     Anders lifts an eyebrow at this, and something shifts in his posture. It's subtle, and Carver's not great at reading body language, but he thinks maybe Anders' opinion of him has suddenly improved. "Huh. So that's why an N7 would give up a promising military career."

     Well, well, well, somebody's been poking about. Not that Carver ever bothers hiding anything about himself, but people usually don't _care_ about his background. Too busy being mad he's not Marian.

     "That's not why," he says, draping an arm over the back of his chair and debating with himself over whether he should be angry. "But it'll do, if you need a reason."

     Anders quickly holds up both hands in a peace gesture. "Just being nosy," he says, and the admission is enough to make Carver relax a little. "Apologies. But Rutherford's the only other N7 on the ship, so frankly I've been wondering if I could recruit _you_."

     Carver snorts. "Anchorate's put me on temporary assignment here, so technically I'm yours already," he says. "'Cept my priority's Rutherford, over the rest of your crew. On ground assignments and such, I'll have to stay near him."

     "Noted." Anders smiles. "Mine, hmm? I think I like the sound of that."

     Carver starts to nod acknowledgement, then has to do a double-take. Is that flirting? Maker, it's been a while; he can't even tell. Maybe it's nothing. "For a while, yeah."

     Anders accepts this with a shrug. "Well, I don't suppose you're available for dinner later, then? Since you're now part of my crew, I'd best get to know you." Another smile, this one followed by a quick glance-down and back up.

     All right, now _that's_ fucking flirting. Carver laughs a little, bemused, then decides on a whim. "Guess I could do that," he says. He's got another training session with Cullen for the afternoon, and after that, they'll probably each need their space. And maybe... well. Anders isn't his usual type, but the whole thing with Cullen means... well. Maybe. "It'll have to be somewhere on this deck, though. Your quarters are too far from where Rutherford will be." Also, Carver's not sure he wants to be in Anders' quarters just yet. In case he's wrong, and in case Anders turns out to be more of a wanker than he seems. Anders is charming enough, and handsome in a weary, stressed-out sort of way, but there's just something... off, about the man. Carver can't put his finger on it.

     "We can use the mess, here. It closes at 2100 hours, but -- " He glances around with exaggerated suspicion, then leans forward and stage-whispers, "Astonishingly, I seem to have access to every room on the ship!"

     Carver can't help laughing. "Handy, that! Right; meet you here then, then."

     "I'll look forward to it. Now, I've got a ship to run, so -- " With a jaunty wave, Anders is off.

     Carver heads back to his quarters, chewing on the Anders thing the whole way, so he almost misses that Cullen's in a frazzle when he walks back into the apartment. They've each got their own rooms, but the shared part of the suite is one big (for a ship) rectangular room: couch and entertainment unit in one corner, open kitchen and dining area spreading across two, desk with holo-vid surface in the last. It's impossible not to see that Cullen is just sitting there in front of the quiescent holo-vid, elbows propped on his knees and fists clenched, with a dark look on his face. So Carver blurts, before he considers whether this might be wise, "Who died?"

     Cullen flinches, and turns a look on him that might be hatred. But then... something changes. His gaze goes hooded, inscrutable, and he looks away from Carver, focusing on his hands. "Two of my men," he says, after a moment. "On Kanisa. I was... transcribing letters to their families."

     Carver stops in his tracks, thinking, _Maker, he's the worst liar I've ever seen_. Because he's somehow sure that Cullen is lying. He can't put his finger on why he's so sure, but it's there in every line of the man: the tense shoulders, the only-slightly-less-tense white-knuckled fists, the way Cullen won't meet his eyes. But Carver can't exactly call him out for that, can he? Not when he's not sure. And anyway, can he really be surprised if Cullen lies to him? Cullen thinks he's a terrorist.

     So Carver nods unnecessarily, and fidgets, and generally tries to figure out, again, what the fuck he's supposed to do with a biotic who needs him but hates him. (He misses Bethany. Bethany would know what to do. But... shit.) "Well, uh," he says at last, "yeah. Sorry about that. But, uh, your duty shift is over, so... We need to train." He holds up his hands quickly when Cullen frowns. "I can wait 'til the letters are done, though, if you'd rather." Because Carver's not a complete ass, and maybe he's wrong about Cullen lying. He'd like to be wrong about that. "Not that it gets any easier with time."

     Cullen looks up at him suddenly, searching Carver's face in a way that used to make Carver defensive when other people turned it on him. Usually that was because they were judging him against Marian, and finding him wanting. Cullen's never met Marian, though, so Carver isn't sure what it means this time. "You have lost men," he says. It's more contemplative than a question. "You are -- your armor."

     Carver blanks out for a moment, trying to parse that, then finally gets it. Cullen's seen his red stripe. "Oh. Well, yeah, I've held command on occasion. Served in the Tenth Fleet, a corporal under Admiral Cailan. Until -- well." He shrugs. Everyone knows what happened to Cailan's Fleet; no point in harping on that. "I was posted on the _Fereldan_ 'til then. Captain Varel. He's the one who recommended me for N7, actually, after. I'd been field-promoted to lieutenant, and..." He doesn't want to talk about Cailan's Fleet. "Well. We survived."

     "The Tenth fought well to the end, I have been told," Cullen says. He frowns as he says this, as if it perplexes him. "It does you credit to have served so nobly."

     Carver considers whether this might be an insult. It kind of is, because Cullen sounds surprised that Carver didn't screw the pooch and get the whole fucking fleet killed himself. "There's plenty who think surviving the Ostagar Cluster makes one a coward," he says. He keeps his voice casual, but he's not feeling casual. If Cullen says any more shit... To cover his tension, he makes himself move, going over to the kitchen and grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. He's not hungry. It's just something to do.

     Behind him, Cullen shifts a little. "Only people who've never faced horrors think surviving is cowardice."

     Oh. "Ain't that the Maker-damned truth." Relaxing, Carver sighs and turns to lean against a counter. Cullen's looking at his hands again. Time to change the subject. Clear the air that's suddenly gotten cloudier. "So, letters or training, your call."

     Cullen sighs and sits back. "You have said that training will 'develop my neural pathways' more quickly, I believe. Therefore it takes priority."

     _Can't wait to be rid of me, hmm?_ Carver shakes his head. "So does having a clear head. Brain chemistry's weird that way, yeah?" But Cullen's answering smile is so bitter that Carver frowns.

     "If this relies on a clear head," Cullen says, very softly, not meeting Carver's eyes, "then my neural pathways will be a long time developing."

     Well, shit.

     Carver gropes for something, anything, to say to that, and comes up wanting. After a moment, though, Cullen takes a deep breath and sits up. "Practice," he says, decisively. "That will clear my head."

     "Fair enough." Carver straightens, then gestures with the apple toward the door. "To the shuttle deck. After you."

     The shuttle deck is empty but for Bodahn again, and the other regular officer on deck -- another dwarf, younger than Bodahn, who squints around at them as Carver and Cullen emerge from the elevator. "Enhancement?" he asks. Must be the upgrades and mods officer.

     "No, thank you, Private Sandal," Cullen says, and Sandal returns to his work. Bodahn waves at them absently as they pass. Carver considers telling them to leave, but Cullen seems easy enough in their presence, so he doesn't bother.

     As they walk to the middle of the hangar, Cullen glances at the ceiling, which has been repaired and removed of its cup. He sighs. Carver chuckles, and when Cullen turns, he holds out another cup that he stuffed in his pocket before leaving the apartment. Cullen winces. "Must we?"

     "What, got something else you'd rather break instead?" Carver sets the cup down on the floor this time and backs off. He knows better than to let the man's biotics get at him again. "So, same exercise as before, but just bring it toward you and catch it in your hand. Once more with less feeling."

     Cullen shakes his head, but then sets his jaw and begins.

     It takes close to three hours for Cullen to bring the cup to himself successfully. For the first hour, the cup simply zings all over the hangar. No more equipment damage, thankfully; Cullen seems determined not to hurt the ship anymore. It doesn't go anywhere near Bodahn or Sandal either, which speaks well of Cullen's dedication to not harm his crew. Gives himself a massive shiner, though, pulling the cup toward his own face at probably a hundred kilometers an hour. It's lucky he doesn't put his fucking eye out. Carver manages not to laugh, just, as he finally calls a halt to the session.

     "I have not caught the cup," Cullen grates. He's got a hand clapped to the eye, and there's an angry ferocity to the way the biotic sheath crawls over him. Bloody perfectionist, mad at himself for not doing it just right out of the gate.

     "Caught it with your eye, didn't you?" Carver comes over to pick up the (dented) cup from near Cullen's feet, then tosses it in one hand before pocketing it. "That's pretty good, you know. Most baby biotics need a week to even get the thing off the floor. How are you feeling?"

     Cullen blinks in surprise, taking his hand from the eye. Yeah, it'll be black and blue in a bit, without medi-gel. Cullen says, "I am... well. Before, when we practiced, I was ill afterward. Achy, feverish."

     "Yeah, your nodes were all sodded up then. Now they're pretty much healed. You hungry?"

     "I -- " Cullen's stomach rumbles; he flushes under the blue of his energy sheath. "Yes."

     Carver laughs. "Yeah, that's normal, too. Biotics run on calories as much as dark energy."

     Cullen grimaces, but then seems to steel himself, taking a deep breath. "Yes. I, ah." Another deep breath, and then a blurt of words. "Perhaps we should dine together, tonight."

     What. Carver tries not to stare at him, and fails. "Uh."

     "It seems -- wise." Maker, Carver's never thought he would meet someone more awkward than himself, but here it is. Cullen shifts from foot to foot and then rubs a hand over his hair. "I have been... uncharitable to you, I think, and... and I should apologize for that. So if it would permit us to work and live together more comfortably, I -- We could talk." He spreads his hands. "Get to know one another."

     If the painful forced joviality of Cullen's voice isn't offputting enough, the fact that he's still crawling with biotic energy really doesn't help. The words are a peace offering -- or they would be if Carver could believe them. The biotics mean that Cullen's still feeling defensive, or maybe even aggressive, in Carver's presence. And what the _fuck_ is all that about.

     "Let's, uh, do that tomorrow," Carver says, slowly. "I've got a learning module I want you to run through, tonight." He taps his omni-tool, and Cullen blinks as his own omni-tool buzzes. "There. It's on biotics and mental/emotional states. Might help you figure out why you're still lit up like a candle, right now while we're talking."    

     Cullen blinks, glancing down at his hands as if he hadn't noticed. Maker; he _hadn't_. That's more troubling than anything else he's done so far. "Oh. I -- " He pauses. Closes his eyes. Shivers. "I cannot seem to stop it."

     Carver nods -- and then, very deliberately, he takes five steps back. The shimmering envelope of energy around Cullen vanishes. Cullen's eyes widen.

     "Yeah, so," Carver says, smiling ruefully. Going to be a fucking minefield, training this one. "It's all right. That's normal, too, when you're feeling... well. But be sure to run that module tonight. It'll explain some things." Because Cullen probably had the right idea about them trying to get more comfortable with one another, but before they went any further, Cullen needed to understand that he was telegraphing his every emotion to Carver, writ large in glowing blue letters. Wouldn't be ethical to leave him in the dark about that.

     "Very well." Cullen grimaces, then lets out a sigh. "I grow tired of feeling ignorant about my own body."

     "Yeah, I get that. But we'll talk once you've gone through that module. Don't wait up for me, though; got plans for tonight. Oh." Carver stops and turns back. "Anders reinstated you, right? I'm seeing him later this evening, so I'll ask him to put you on half-shifts for now. The other half we'll use for biotics training. He says we're heading back to Kanisa, so I need to get you combat-ready -- biotics-wise, of course, since you can handle yourself otherwise. But I think it'll do you good to let loose, finally, and start figuring out what you can do now."

     He doesn't mistake the way Cullen's jaw tightens at the mention of Kanisa. "Yes," Cullen says softly, his gaze growing distant. "I would like very much to be combat-ready again before Kanisa."

     And Carver pities any slaver stupid enough to still be on the planet, once they get there.

     He decides to leave Cullen with his thoughts, and skirts wide 'round him before heading for the door so Cullen won't feel threatened. "Make sure you eat at least 1200 calories for that next meal," he calls over his shoulder. "You didn't go full burn today, but your system's still adjusting."

     "All right." And Carver's at the elevator, waiting for it -- the thing's just slow, even when the ship isn't being slow-mo torn apart -- and nodding farewell to Bodahn and Sandal, when Cullen's voice catches him up abruptly. "Wait. You're seeing Anders tonight? Anders is your 'plans.'"

     It's sharp-spoken. Carver blinks and turns back, surprised. Cullen is staring at him, expression unreadable. "Yeah. Getting-to-know-you dinner, he said." Carver shrugs. "Like I said, don't wait up." They might talk a lot. They might... not.

     Then the elevator comes, and Carver heads into it, waving over his shoulder. He punches the button for the crew quarters level and stretches as he waits for the doors to shut, glad to be done for the day. But as the doors start to shut, Carver glances back into the shuttle hangar and blinks -- because Cullen's glowing again, brighter than ever, and he is staring at Carver with his face distorted into an expression of utter, thwarted fury.

     It only lasts an instant. Cullen turns away, and the energy sheath flicks out like a blown candle the instant he does, and then the doors shut. The elevator starts to move. And Carver stares at the doors the whole way, thinking, _The fuck?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just positioning, in this short chapter. Next chapter's actiony stuff, and it just doesn't work without foreshadowing, so...

     It makes no sense. Cullen braces a trembling hand against a pile of crates. _It makes no sense_ that he feels like this. His blood pounds in his ears. Something is wrong.

     _My knight_ , whispers the part of him that is fixed on Hawke, has been fixed on Hawke since that morning in the medbay when Cullen woke up anchored. In those first few disoriented moments, before he had understood that Hawke was Anchorate and anathema, he had thought, **_My_** _knight. Mine._

     No sense at all. What does it matter if Hawke means to have dinner with Anders? If he becomes yet another of the dozens of lovers Anders has cheerfully left in his wake, at every port and on every other colony world? Hawke is a terrorist. Cullen has only barely managed to remain civil to him throughout this latest lesson because of Meredith's orders. And yet the thought of Hawke with Anders --

     _Mine!_

     For a solid minute, Cullen wants to murder his captain, and cannot fathom why.

     "Serrah?"

     Cullen rounds on Bodahn so fast that the dwarf takes a step back, blinking. His eyes widen at whatever he sees in Cullen's face.

     Then, all at once, the feeling fades. Cullen is himself again. He puts a hand over his mouth before he remembers where he is, then drags it away and attempts to compose himself. "Bodahn." It takes everything he's got. "What is it?"

     Bodahn's frowning at him. "Are you all right, Commander? That civilian didn't overdo things with you, did he?"

     "No. Yes." It's a useful excuse that might even be true. "I'm... tired, I think. It's been a long day." Training. Reviewing Anders' briefs in order to catch up to what's happened while he's been out of commission. Being recruited by Meredith as a spy against his own anchor. "Thank you for your concern. I'll be all right."

     Bodahn steps back again, but he's muttering to himself. "Bloody civilian should be more considerate; you've got a lot on your shoulders. Serrah, are you sure I or Sandal can't -- "

     It's gone. Cullen is himself again, and the nigh-overwhelming urge to chase after Hawke, grab him, and blast open to the vacuum any space that Anders occupies, has passed. But it makes no sense that he ever felt such a way. None of this makes any sense.

     "Thank you," Cullen says again, absently. Then he pivots to head out of the shuttle hangar at once.

#

     Empty, with half its lighting off, the mess hall feels almost cozy. Anders leads Hawke in to the mini-kitchen, where he's set up the island with two place-settings. He's kept things simple, unfancy, since Hawke seems the unfancy type. Standard mess dishware, steaks frying in a pan on the oven, potatoes and crisp blue asari _mkip-mkip_ stalks sauteed already on the plates.

     "I didn't ask if you ate meat," Anders says, beckoning for Hawke to sit as he moves to turn the steaks. "Granted, these are 'factory-cloned tissue striate.' Just like Mother used to make!" He grins over his shoulder.

     Hawke chuckles. He's a lovely boy, here in this more intimate setting, with some of his perpetual guard relaxed. Handsome, like his sister; Anders has looked up photos of Marian Hawke to compare them. Both have hair black as night, full lips, broad shoulders, soldier builds. They share a certain strength of feature and keenness of eye, but beyond that are as different as apples and oranges -- or greatswords and twin-knives, better, since both of them have an edged air, too. It's more visibly sheathed with Marian; people are probably more comfortable around her innately, and correspondingly more surprised when she drops the facade to gut the foolish and unwary. Carver Hawke wears his blades where everyone can see them, so that the foolish and unwary won't bother him in the first place.

     Probably a good thing the sister isn't around; Anders has a thing for hidden edges. But here, now, with Carver Hawke alone? Anders has a thing for hidden loneliness, too.

     "My mother cooked the cows we raised, thanks," Carver says, settling his chin onto his fist with a smile. Has he figured out that Anders is trying to seduce him? Probably, and he's still here. Interesting. "Grew up on a farm. My parents were big believers in the circle of life, and all that."

     _Parents: Leandra Amell,_ Justice supplies in Anders' mind. _Scion of a powerful political family; disowned, however. Malcolm Hawke. First-generation biotic, trained at Jump Zero as part of the pilot BAaT program. Unregistered at time of death, twelve years ago. Carver Hawke would have been sixteen at the time._

     How very interesting indeed.

     "Maker, I don't think I've eaten real meat since I was a boy," Anders says. He leans down to eye the steaks critically. "It didn't once, but these days it feels strange to eat something that once walked and slept and so on. Rare?"

     "Yes, please. Factory-cloned blood and all."

     So Anders plates the steaks and hands him one. They dine for a while in companionable silence. Anders is debating whether he'll take, if Hawke offers, because he really just wanted a better read on the fellow but Hawke _is_ rather lovely, now that he's had a better look. Probably beautiful unclothed, and it's always the brash ones who turn out to be unexpectedly sensual, when one touches them the right way. And what better way to get a read on someone? But then he notices that Hawke's gaze is far away, and there's a little wrinkle between his brows as he chews. Anders can guess why, but he decides to play the flirt.

     "That bad, is it?" he asks lightly. Hawke starts and flushes and ducks his eyes and -- Maker. All right. Anders will definitely take if Hawke offers.

     "Sorry," Hawke says. "Food's delicious."

     "Our resident problem commander?"

     Hawke grimaces. "Fuck. That obvious, then?"

     "Some, yes." Anders props his elbows on the table and folds his fingers together. "I did have a talk with him earlier today, where I suggested that he not call you a terrorist to your face."

     Hawke coughs out a laugh. "Thanks for that!" Hawke's smile fades. "Handling it, though. I mean, it's fine."

     Which Anders takes to mean that there's something else going on. He decides to probe -- delicately. Sharp edges, after all. "A personal matter, an Alliance matter, or an Anchorate matter? Or none of the above, and 'go to the Void, you nosy old bastard?'"

     Carver grins. "Little of everything. Mostly it's biotic/anchor stuff, though. I won't bore you with it."

     And of course Anders is now rabidly interested. He decides to feint. "I hear a lot of things about the Anchorate," he prompts.

     It's the wrong angle of attack, and Hawke lets him know this immediately. His smile vanishes and his gaze turns very hard as he sits back in his chair, deceptively relaxed. "Really."

     Shit. Anders tries to shrug it off. "Most of which is nonsense, I imagine. Or envy."

     "Envy."

     "Well, that's what most anti-biotic hatred is about, isn't it?" Anders spreads his hands and smiles. He knows his smiles are disarming, and he hopes this will prompt Hawke to put the shiv away. "The Chantry can pretend it's afraid of alien contamination, but these things always come down to power: Who's got it now, who might get it in the future, and what the former will do to prevent the latter."

     Hawke's expression goes through such a complex flux that Anders can't fathom what's going on in his head. He plays rough-mannered and direct, Anders considers, but maybe it matters that he's from a line of politicians, at least on his mother's side. Beneath the sharp edges, there are layers, and they shift.

     "Didn't think the Alliance promoted non-Andrasteans," Hawke says, reaching for his glass. Just wine, to keep things semi-professional.

     "Why must I be a heretic?"

     "Most Andrasteans don't talk about the future. Too busy trying to bring back the fucking past."

     "Ah." It fits well enough, and Anders decides to offer a concession. "Well, we do slip through. Now and again. Quietly."

     Hawke's eyebrows twitch. "Dangerous."

     "To whom?" Anders offers his biggest, most winning smile.

     And Hawke laughs. There's a relieved note in it, if Anders doesn't mistake his guess. "Yeah, well. 'To whom' is entirely the problem. Anyway, though." And the shiv's gone back into its hiding place. Good. That's the trick with him, Anders decides. Candor. Honesty. That's how being from a line of politicians has affected him: He hates the games politicians play, even though he's probably perfectly capable of doing so. Like now, as he deftly changes the subject. "So, yeah, our problem Commander."

     "Yes? What about him?"

     Hawke props his forearms on the table and lets out a sigh. "Late-onsets always have it rougher than kids who are born biotic. First there's the onset trauma. C5s are rare, but it's rarer to find one who _survives_ discovering all of a sudden that he's biotic."

     "Mmm. I gather a lot of struts get damaged."

     Hawke snorts. "Struts. Life support systems. Hulls. Airlocks, when people realize what's happening and try to deal with the problem as they see it." He sobers. "A lot of damaged airlocks. Biotics try to hold the doors shut; it's instinct." His expression twists. "All that Chantry propaganda about biotics not being people leaves a mark."

     _And yet you turned over a biotic to be made tranquil_ , Anders reminds himself behind his own rueful smile. Lovely, dangerous boy.

     _Do not ever forget this_ , whispers Justice in his mind.

     Never.

     "It's hard to adjust," Hawke continues, oblivious to Anders' internal discussion. "In more ways than one. Haven't told Cullen, but... not all late-onsets _can_ develop the neural pathways to self-support. Some are too old, or too inflexible. Their brains are too set, and they might _always_ need an anchor to stay stable. And there's other ways it can go wrong with late-onsets."

     Permanently needing an anchor sounded bad enough. "Such as?"

     Hawke picks up his fork. He's finished eating; it's probably fidgeting. Then he says, to his plate, "There's a thing that happens sometimes. If an anchor and a biotic are... _too_ compatible."

     And Anders has to immediately fight to keep his face still. _Oh, Maker. Hawke and... Rutherford? It can't be. If so -- oh, Maker. Poor Hawke._

     But Anders cannot know what he knows, and Hawke cannot know that Anders knows, so Anders reaches for the bottle of wine and pours more for both of them as a cover. "Mmm-hmm?"

     Hawke goes silent for a moment, then sighs in frustration. "Shit. I can't talk about this with you. It's Anchorate stuff. That's what I'm trying to say: there's things that only people who grew up biotic -- or grew up _with_ biotics -- will ever be able to really get. Wouldn't be a problem if another Anchorate was around, or if Cullen was Anchorate-raised -- or, shit, if he just wasn't a religious nut _arse_. But here we are, so the whole situation is kind of shit."

     Yes, it is. But Anders is supposed to be an ignorant, if sympathetic, ordinary citizen. He's also supposed to be trying to get into Hawke's pants. He puts his hand on the island next to Hawke's. Not touching. Just there. "It sounds kind of shit," he says, gently. "How can I help?"

     He means to plant a suggestion, and it works like a dream. Hawke notices his hand, and looks up to search his face. He's scared, Anders sees in those bright blue eyes. He's feeling Anders out, same as Anders is assessing him, but it's a needier thing on Hawke's part.

     "I, uh, I don't know," Hawke says, after a long moment. He lowers his gaze. His lashes are remarkably long. "Need to think about some stuff. Might need help later, though. Rain check 'til then?"

     And he moves his hand, pretty Hawke does, so that his pinky brushes Anders' thumb. Well, well, well.

     Candor. Honesty. So.

     Anders lifts his hand from the island up to cup Hawke's cheek. Hawke tenses a little, but does not pull away. Perfect. Anders draws a thumb around the soft curve of his bottom lip. Hawke has a strong, tight jaw beneath Anders' fingers, but his mouth is tender. Anders likes the contradiction, and the fact that Hawke seems comfortable letting either aspect of himself show.

     "A kiss?" Anders offers. "For luck."

     Hawke gives it a think-over. Anders likes that he does. His opinion of Hawke is shifting. He cannot trust Hawke, of course, because the Anchorate is just as bad as the Chantry in its way, and at the end of the day Hawke is just as complicit in the system as any Templar. He doesn't seem to realize it, either, which is a shame.

     But Hawke is young and lonely and afraid, and that's enough for Anders, for now. Hawke's mouth is soft beneath his as Hawke leans across the island to meet him. Anders cups his head, threads fingers into his hair, and it isn't at all by accident that he massages the scalp just around Hawke's implant, without actually touching the nub of it. Hawke inhales a little, nostrils flaring; he swallows. When they part, Anders can practically see him rethinking the "rain check."

     But he says, "Later," and Anders of course sits back, letting him go with a smile.

     "Later," Anders agrees. He smiles too, certain now that there will be a later.

     There is dessert, which Anders didn't make. Apple pie special-ordered from a storage crate. Contains no actual apples and the crust is retextured nutrient paste, but it goes down easily enough. Hawke laughs more loudly at Anders' terrible jokes. They haven't had enough to drink for Anders to actually be funnier, so it must be the promise of sex that's filed down his edges. (Anders is almost certain Hawke has slept with the Iron Bull; the Bull doesn't let pretty treasures lie around unclaimed. And did the Bull teach him Anders' electricity trick? He wishes they could compare notes, but it would raise too many questions.)

     Later, though. And after that -- perhaps it might be possible to bring Hawke around on certain matters. He's such a smart young man. Good-hearted. Angry, not far beneath his surface, and searching for something. Maybe Anders can help him find it. Maybe Anders can help him to _see_.

     Later.

#

     Merrill doesn't really mean to stalk Anders. She isn't doing so, really; it's just that she needs someone to talk to. She's used to that from back in the Traverse, where the elven colonies did not bother with Chantry rules or Chantry bigotry, because that was the whole point in traveling to another planet after all. And in Sabrae Colony, Merrill always had Marethari around as another person with whom she could share anything -- another biotic presence, the older woman's heavy power weighing down the world even from a distance. She had Mahariel as her anchor, too, until Mahariel left, and even though anchors do not use biotics, they still make a weight upon the world. Here in space amid the humans, everything is so _delicate_. Merrill must tiptoe among them, their weak anchors and their fragile biotics and their fraught politics. Often, she missteps. But Anders, of all these people, is strong enough that she can relax around him and feel something close to "at home." With Anders, and with Isabela... but on this ship, right now, there is only Anders. So she clings to him, probably more than she should.

     And she doesn't mean to catch him right after he steps out of the mess hall with the Anchorate man, Hawke. She doesn't mean to see the way they look at each other. Hawke bids Anders a lazy farewell, as if he doesn't care about the parting -- but Merrill can sense the way his link to Commander Cullen loosens, now and again. No anchor can link to two biotics at once, and Hawke doesn't let Cullen go... but it is _meaningful_ that the loosening occurs at all. Does Hawke mean to do it? Probably not. Probably, to him, the just-shy-of-stable link is normal. Hawke is a good anchor -- _very_ good, by the standards of humans -- but he is like the rest of the anchors in the Alliance in that he has no loyalty to any one biotic. He stays with them for a time and then tosses them aside to struggle on alone, which is a practice so wrong that Merrill's people call it anathema and make the sign of the Dread Wolf whenever they hear about it. His attraction to Anders is so obvious, given that wavering link, that Merrill wonders why Hawke even bothers to pretend. But he is _meant_ for Cullen. Why can he not simply realize this?

     And how terrible for Cullen, who can probably feel the loosening, but has no idea what it means.

     When Hawke is gone, Merrill ghosts out of the corridor where she has lingered, not-stalking. Anders is standing in front of the door, gazing thoughtfully after Hawke, his expression amused and a little smug. But he says, because of course he knows Merrill is there, "Has something happened?"

     Merrill stops, reflexively glancing up -- and yes, there's a camera array in a corner of the corridor. The _Justice_ sees her, which means that Anders sees her, if he chooses to. She takes a deep breath to calm herself; her heart rate rises when she's nervous, and Justice will see that, too. Though frankly, Anders can probably guess it all on his own.

     "I've news," she says, drawing close and dropping her voice. Hawke is probably out of earshot, but it's third shift on a Systems Alliance warship, which never sleeps. There's always someone around, but this is important. "Isabela's going to meet us on Kanisa."

     Anders blinks at her in surprise, and then he beams. It's easier for Merrill to take Anders, and the awful, dangerous thing he has done to himself, because there's still plenty of the real Anders left. It slips sometimes, and Merrill hates this -- but the real Anders is a good man. While he holds ascendancy, she has hope for him. "That's wonderful!" he says. "You've been missing her so. I'll be sure to approve any shore leave you request, once we're done with the mission parameters."

     "Yes, thank you, but." It's completely true that Merrill has missed Isabela, but that's not why she's risked getting close to the entirely-too-sensitive Specialist Hawke. "She says there's trouble, and we need to go in prepared for that. As in, with guns and shivs and such." She pantomimes stabbing someone with an omni-blade. Anders gets that look he always gets when he's trying not to laugh, with the skin going taut around his eyes and his smile freezing in place. He thinks she's funny. Why is she funny? She did not mean to be.

     His smile fades quickly enough, though, and he beckons for her to follow as he heads down the corridor. "What sort of trouble? Did she give any details?"

     "No. She was riding a carrier signal to avoid detection. There are pirates in the area, she said. Slavers."

     Anders' expression hardens. "That's good. We want to find those slavers, Merrill."

     "No!" He doesn't understand, or maybe he doesn't believe her. Shemlen never seem to, and Merrill isn't sure whether the fault lies in her ability to convince, or in the shemlen's inability to believe in people who are female or small or not obviously dangerous. But Anders _knows_ Isabela, knows her of old, and should that not make a difference? "Do you think _Isabela_ would be afraid of ordinary pirates? Would we need to be warned about that? This is _different_."

     Anders stops in the corridor, frowning. "What are you saying?"

     "I'm saying -- " Merrill stops, shaking with sudden emotion. " _We are_ saying that the slavers who attacked Kanisa were something other than the usual greedy monsters. Or, they were the usual -- but they _answer to_ something else. Something much worse. And when we go back to Kanisa... I'm worried we're going to find it."

     Anders is staring at her now, but at last there is real, deepening concern in his expression. This is what matters. He will not send a small surface party; he will send several large ones, and give them heavy weapons. He will keep the Justice in stealth mode. And if necessary, he will understand that there are secrets, and there is his ship, and sometimes a captain must give up one if the other is to remain intact. She prays to Mythal that he will choose the right thing to give up.

     Anders' eyes narrow and grow distant. "Maker. It's the Bull's biotic hunters," he murmurs, almost to himself.

     "What?"

     Abruptly he focuses on her. "Cullen," he says. "And you, for that matter, but _especially_ him. I can't let either of you go down to that planet."

     _"What?"_ But that means she won't see Isabela.

     Anders reaches out to take her shoulders. "Please believe me, Merrill," he says, so earnestly that she _must_ believe him, "that I would never do this without good reason. But you're confined to CIC duty until further notice."

     And then he is off, trotting toward his cabin and muttering to himself. Horrified, Merrill trots after him for a few steps, and then stops. She can't really follow him anymore, after all; he has run in strange places for several years, now.

     But then, so has Merrill. And perhaps Anders has forgotten just why Merrill left Sabrae Colony.

     Turning, Merrill heads back to her bunk in the crew quarters. She has preparations of her own to make, if the ship will soon be in danger -- and more importantly, if Isabela should need her. Because Merrill knows that biotics and anchors are supposed to take _care_ of one another, and she does not mean to shirk that duty just because she's spent too much time among foolish shemlen.

     And as she hurries along, fists tight at her sides, the nails prick her palms hard enough to draw blood.

 


	8. Chapter 8

     Kanisa is silent.

     Cullen stands in the cockpit beside Anders, both of them listening to the silence that's been the only response to Alistair's hails. Everyone's in armor. The ship is on high alert. "Say again," Alistair says into the comm. "Kanisa Colony. This is the _Justice_ SR-2. Do you copy?" Silence.

     It's the fifth time Alistair has attempted to hail the colony. He glances over at Sera, his co-pilot, and then sighs and turns to Anders.

     "They shouldn't have stayed," Cullen says. He keeps his voice inflectionless, but his arms are folded, his fists tight; his stomach is a knot of curdled adrenaline. How had they not seen what Cullen had, on that awful last mission? A damaged colony was a beacon to pirates and additional slaver raids. "Did the Alliance not offer them evacuation assistance?"

     "No." Anders speaks as neutrally as Cullen does, which gives Cullen all the warning he needs. "Kanisa is only twenty percent Andrastean. And a number of its members have been outspoken critics of Chantry policy on the extranet, so..."

     "Maker." Even as an Andrastean, Cullen is appalled. And robbed and impoverished as they were, none of the colonists would have been able to afford passage on a private vessel. And yet -- "If they had a local Chantry Mother or lay-brother to appeal for them... If more had pledged to convert, perhaps..."

     It is uncharitable of him. People who convert because it's either that or death are not sincere; it diminishes the Chant to force, rather than convince, new faithful.   Still, some part of Cullen wants to blame the colonists for their misfortune, however wrong it is. _Better to convert than to die, surely!_

     "Perhaps." Anders is furious. He hides it well in his face and body language, but the clipped edge of his words makes it clear. "But they did not."

     And now something has silenced more than seven hundred people. Cullen sets his jaw. _Blessed Andraste. Look after them, please, for even the ones who doubt You are the Maker's children_.

     Then he turns to Anders. "I'll take a team down. Target will be a security console. There might be recorded data about the attack -- "

     Anders sighs. "No, Cullen."

     "No?"

     "No. Conference room, please." He turns and heads out. Cullen stares after him. Alistair and Sera look at one another, though they quickly focus on their instruments once Cullen eyes them. Then Cullen has no choice but to follow his Captain.

     As Cullen leaves the cockpit, Carver Hawke falls in behind him, a silent shadow. Cullen ignores this. He has ignored Hawke for three days now, whenever they aren't in a practice session. The strange rage has not hit Cullen again since he first experienced it, but he fears its return enough to forego Meredith's orders, for now. Hawke seems comfortable with Cullen's aversion, keeping his distance when he isn't directly addressing Cullen; Cullen barely sees him, in fact, as Hawke tends to stay in his room or roam the ship. But now, with a possible surface mission in the offing, Hawke stays close.

     Even to the point of following him into the conference room when Anders, Aveline, and the other officers have gathered. Cullen waits for Anders to say something about Hawke's intrusion... but Anders eyes Hawke for a moment, then turns away. Damnation.

     "Aveline," Anders says. "I need you to lead the fire team on this mission."

     Aveline blinks in surprise, but salutes. "Ser."

     What. Cullen steps forward at once. " _Ser_."

     "It isn't up for discussion, Rutherford." Anders eyes Cullen. "I have my reasons. And in any case, I need you here on the ship. We've monitored pirate and slaver activity in this system on a scale I've never seen. There are _flocks_ of them, the scavengers."

     It is completely against protocol, but Cullen cannot protest, not here in front of others. "Ser."

     Anders nods and turns to Aveline. "I expect a firefight down there, so your surface party needs to number at least twelve. Weapons free on missile launchers and flamethrowers. Haul Sandal up from level five; I want turrets at strategic positions -- "

     Hawke clears his throat. Everyone in the room turns to stare at him.

     Anders actually pauses, lifting an eyebrow. "Specialist Hawke."

     "A biotic can lay down suppressing singularities," Hawke says. He's standing at ease, hands behind his back, perfectly comfortable in a room full of people who think he doesn't belong. "Good cover for turrets. If the Commander is willing, of course."

     Anders stares at him for a moment. Then he eyes Cullen, who is privately wondering how Hawke expects him to throw singularities in combat when they have never once practiced such a thing. Something of this must show on Cullen's face, because Anders shakes his head and says to Hawke, "I appreciate your... suggestion, Specialist, but this isn't the time." He turns to Aveline again.

     _This is surely Hawke's fault_ , Cullen thinks -- seethes -- as he waits at ease. For Anders to confine the commander to the ship during a mission is a punishment, and Cullen does not deserve it. He will abide, though, and try to calm himself until he can get Anders in private.

     And as Anders ends the meeting and the officers head off to assemble their teams, Cullen catches Hawke by the elbow and pulls him out of the room. He tries to keep the gesture casual, companionable, but he is angry, and Hawke throws a frowning glare at him. He lets Cullen pull him into the corridor beyond the room, but at once he yanks his elbow free. "The fuck is wrong with you now."

     "What have you told Anders?" Cullen demands.

     "What?" Hawke stares at him, and if Cullen were inclined to think better of him, he would acknowledge the confusion in the man's face. He is not so inclined. "The Void are you on about? Told Anders about what?"

     "About -- " Sten emerges from the room and eyes them; Cullen drops his voice to a harsh whisper. "About me!"

     Now Hawke stares at him as if he's gone mad. "What about you? You just heard me volunteer us for ground assault. You're the one who wanted to go; I was just trying to back you up!"

     Cullen recoils, realizing this is true. But there must be some reason for Anders to have turned on him like this. "You told him I wasn't ready," he says. "You told him -- I don't know. At your little _dinner_." The incomprehensible, insensible rage rises in Cullen again, and he just manages to force back the biotic flare that threatens to envelop his body again. He's watched Hawke's training module, which told him things like _Unacknowledged anxieties tend to manifest as uncontrolled power surges_ and _For your emotional privacy, the Anchorate recommends calm in all public situations_. He understands now what Hawke was trying to tell him -- that every time Cullen loses control of his biotics in Hawke's presence, it _means something_ , and an experienced anchor like Hawke can read it like a book.

     So Cullen reins it in. But he has not told Hawke yet about the sharing -- that peculiar way Cullen can feel what Hawke feels, emotionally and physically. There was nothing about it in the learning modules. And Hawke does not seem to know that it is happening.

     He should tell Hawke, he knows. He _knows_. And yet he does not, and he cannot fathom why.

     So he knows Hawke isn't lying when Hawke steps close to snarl into his face, "I didn't say a thing to Anders about you, you fucking narcissist. I sure as fuck wouldn't have said it over dinner, because I was trying to get into his pants and _not every bloody thing is about you._ If he's benched you, take that out on him, not me!"

     He steps back, but though he faces away from Cullen in clear distaste, he does not leave. Cullen stares at him, then abruptly understands. It's a combat situation, and Cullen is a biotic. An anchor's duty is to be at his biotic's side -- even when that biotic has insulted him.

     This, finally, breaks the back of Cullen's anger and clears his head. He is the one in the wrong, here. It would be proper to apologize, but in the moment he can only stare at Hawke's profile and think --

     _Mine._

     Everything in his life has gone so wrong.

     But Cullen has work to do, and so he turns to go about that work, with Hawke in silent, tight-jawed tow. He heads to the CIC and sets Harding to exclusive monitoring and recon for the fire team, while Anders remains in the cockpit to oversee tactical. Aveline knows her business, but Cullen cannot bring himself to relax. He feels tense, jittery, as if he is being watched. It's worry over the mission, he knows; Kanisa is a place of unease for him already, and whatever awaits them this time is far outside of typical mission parameters. And yet.

     So then they wait, as the shuttle leaves for the surface. Cullen leans on the bannister of the galaxy map display, trying not to fidget, as Bodahn -- also the shuttle pilot when not on procurement -- takes the team in for a landing.

     "Signs of weapons fire," he reports over the comm. Cullen's hands tighten. He glances at Harding, who looks grim. "There was quite the firefight here, Commander, looks like, but I don't see any bodies, and infrared is cold. Must've been a few days ago. Wonder why they didn't send a distress call? Anyhow, just let me put the old shuttle down h -- oh." Abruptly he goes silent.

     Cullen tenses at once. Bodahn is never silent when he has the comm. "Bodahn."

     "Sorry, Commander," Aveline interrupts. She sounds off, somehow. Distracted. "I asked Bodahn to pan the shuttle cameras back and send you the image. There's... something odd, here."

     The galaxy map display flickers as Bodahn patches in the image. They see the colony's shuttle landing pad from above, empty. There's a scorch-mark almost near the pad's center; someone fired a gun here, or misfired. No obstructions exist within the landing area; the shuttle is already settling onto the ground. But as it does so, the camera pans. Just beyond the landing pad, in a little cluster, stand three odd-looking devices. Cullen has never seen such tech before. The bottom of each is perhaps the size of a portable heating unit, only two or three feet high, and egg-shaped, although clearly it is mechanical in some way. From its top surface, however, juts a tapering, three-meter-high spike of rounded metal, sharp as a skewer at the tip.

     And if the sudden, stark flare of terror from Hawke does not startle Cullen, the way the man suddenly stumbles back from the display, until his back armor plates clank against the wall, definitely does. He has gone white, his eyes wide and horrified. "Fuck," he says. It's very soft.

     Cullen frowns at him. "Specialist Hawke?"

     Hawke is staring at the display as if he cannot look away. There is chaos inside him, Cullen is suddenly, painfully aware; fear is a completely inadequate word for what Hawke is feeling. "Tell them to prepare for a ground assault," Hawke murmurs.

     In the holo-display, Aveline and her team are on the ground; the camera swings wildly as Aveline turns to signal someone. "No sign of hostiles," Aveline says, once her people are off the shuttle and ready. "Colony prefabs are up ahead. We'll go in and search for data. Williams, leave off analyzing that thing." Her helmet cam swings toward one of the egg-shaped objects. Private Williams is standing near it, scanning it with his omni-tool. "We'll take one back with us later."

     It's going as it should. Cullen nods absently to himself, then turns back to Hawke, frowning. "You've seen objects like those," he says, guessing. That is also one of the emotions roiling inside Hawke right now: horrified recognition. "What do you know about this?"

     Hawke's face jerks toward him, and Cullen starts at the sudden _jolt_ of the anchor link between them. It's pulling harder on Cullen, tightening like a clasped hand that suddenly grips hard. "I said tell them to prepare for a fucking ground assault!" Hawke snarls. He looks unhinged.

     Reflexively Cullen touches his comm, although he does not ping Aveline directly. She'll hear anything he hears. From the corner of his eye, he can see that Anders has stepped into the door of the cockpit for a look at Hawke, too. "A ground assault from whom?" Cullen asks, trying to understand.

     Hawke laughs once. There is nothing remotely amused in his voice; it is an epithet. _"The colonists."_

     Before Cullen can say anything else, though, the _Justice_ 's VI speaks over the PA. "Proximity alert," it says. Its voice is tenor, male, brisk; Cullen has never found it particularly soothing, though VI voices are usually selected for that quality. It is especially not-soothing now.

     "General quarters!" Anders snaps, and all the ship's lights turn red.

     Cullen turns back to the display, which immediately switches from Aveline's camera to a ship's external sensor. The blue blip orbiting the planet is the _Justice_ , he knows. What is the bright yellow blip rapidly approaching it?

     "What in the Maker's name is _that_?" Alistair suddenly asks over comms. "In the forward viewports -- "

     The display changes again. External cameras. Out of the system's sun, a vessel approaches. It's hard to see. Cullen gets the sudden impression of something enormous and misshapen, and _fast,_ and it is _coming toward them_ , and something is glowing near its front --

     "Approaching vessel is powering forward weapons," the _Justice_ says.

     "Evasive action!" Anders shouts. The ship rumbles all over as Alistair puts all the engines into full burn -- but it is too late.

     The entire ship lurches, hard enough to throw Cullen against the display railing. Many other CIC crew do fall. He smells smoke, hears screams; alarms blare. "Impact in engineering," the _Justice_ reports, and Cullen dimly registers that its normally impassive voice sounds more terse than usual, hinting at urgency. "Mass effect core offline. Hull breach. Inertial dampeners offline. Life support offline. Fire suppression offline -- "

     _Maker's Breath! Just one shot did so much damage?_ Cullen hauls himself upright and shouts into the comm. "Emergency repair team to engine core!" That was priority. Without engines, the _Justice_ was dead in the water. "Captain Anders, recommend extraction of the ground t -- "

     "We are being boarded," says the _Justice_ , and Cullen's blood chills. "Shuttle bay."

     "To me!" Cullen calls, drawing his pistol and sprinting for the emergency access ladder. Lights flicker as he slides down to the cargo level; the ship's power grid is unstable. As he reaches the shuttle deck, Hawke lands an instant after he pulls away from the ladder. Cullen has no more time to think about it. He can feel the pressure difference here in the shuttle bay; they're losing air somewhere. "Mag boots and helmets!" he shouts, activating and sealing his own. Hawke curses but complies. Keran is here too, and Nottley, and Leliana, and Ruvena. Cullen holds up a fist to signal for them to keep tight formation --

     And then something comes at them around a pile of equipment.

     For a first, confused instant, Cullen thinks it's a man. It looks like a human being -- bipedal, clothed, five fingers on the hand that it lifts and curls into a fist. But that fist is massive; the palm alone is bigger than his torso. It straightens, towering over them; the thing must be four or five meters tall. As it moves into the light, Cullen gets a good look at its face. Bestial muzzle hanging open to reveal metallic teeth, eyes embedded lights glowing hellishly blue, tubes running through its cheeks and out of its temples and up out of sight around its spreading crown of horns --

     And for the first time in ten years, Cullen thinks, _Demon_.

     But before he can muster enough wit to react, Hawke rushes past him, screaming and leaping up to shove his omni-greatsword into the thing's chest.

     It staggers back, flailing, but Hawke hangs on, using the sword to pull himself up as it tilts backward. He kills the blade and then reactivates it to stab the creature again, this time through the throat. The lights embedded into its strange flesh flicker, and tubes hiss with hydraulics and stranger pressures -- and then it falls down, twitching, dying.

     And Hawke, still screaming like a madman, stabs it again. And again. And _again_.

     But there are new horrors coming into view, walking on insectoid legs or buzzing on glowing gossamer wings. These carry guns. Jolted out of stasis at last, Cullen shouts and activates his omni-blade, hearing the others shout around him. Then he joins the fray.

     The creatures are no alien race he's ever seen before, in person or in training modules. They chitter in some tongue that his translator cannot parse. Their energy weapons are devastating; Cullen quickly draws his monomolecular shield and expands it to usable size, after a single glancing shot takes his personal shield down to nearly nothing. The mono-shield only helps a little, mostly for bashing the creatures when he gets close enough to engage. But he has no choice; guns do so little damage that only an omni-blade is effective.

     There are so many of them. At least twenty here in the shuttle bay, three for every one of Cullen's soldiers. All around him. _Surrounding_ him. Already he is cut off from the rest; dimly he is aware that this seems deliberate. Through the mass of them, he glimpses Nottley screaming as one of the creatures lifts him into the air, impaled on its clawed hand. Ruvena is shouting as she chops off another thing's wings, but there are three more bearing down on her from six o'clock. Keran moves to aid her. None of them see Cullen being drawn away, separated off from the group. Cullen is too preoccupied with surviving to be afraid, even as the thought finally registers in his mind. _Me. They're after **me**._

     And then Hawke suddenly appears beside Cullen, shooting one of the creatures at close-enough range that it backs off. He has fought his way through the mass, and now he claps a hand onto Cullen's arm. "Biotics," he gasps. "Unlocking you -- "

     And something changes in Cullen.

     He is always aware of Hawke's anchor. Now he feels its shape change within himself, to the degree that something intangible can have a shape. Now it is a rudder within him, shifting, steering. Focusing. And all of a sudden, he feels the surge of biotics within himself, as raw and terrible as it was on the day that Hawke arrived. Power enough to tear the ship apart. Terrifying.

     But Hawke grunts and dances to one side of him. Inside Cullen, the rudder swings. He flinches and finds himself staring at a knot of the creatures. None of them are like the giant man-beast that first attacked them, but he _hates_ them nevertheless, he wants them gone, he wants them _off_ his bloody _ship_. Then the hate boils up from Cullen's belly and spills over his skin and gathers in his hands. He shouts and the world turnes blue. His hatred flies at them, twists, forms a boiling curl in the air --

     And Cullen stares, stunned, as five of the creatures are swept up and torn to pieces by a whirlpool in the air. A biotic singularity. _His_ biotic singularity.

     Another creature comes from his right; out of long habit, Cullen fumbles to raise his omni-blade. But Hawke curses and lunges to Cullen's left, _he_ is the rudder, and abruptly the sword feels meaningless and ineffectual in Cullen's hand. He imagines a sword instead, a great endless blade that sweeps through the shuttle bay, and scythes off the heads of ten of the creatures at once. Keran is in the path of this, but Cullen does not want to kill Keran, and so the scythe slips through him harmlessly. He wants the rest dead, however -- and so they are, falling down in pieces as the energy dissipates.

     A moment of stillness, as the surviving creatures pause and regroup. The floor is covered in their dead, and Cullen's living four. All of the humans, except Hawke, are staring at Cullen.

     Sweet Maker of All. Cullen stares at this, giddy with realization. **_I_** _did this. This is me. Biotics, evil, alien, and yet_ \--

     And yet. The enemy has been thwarted.

     Not for long, though. Cullen can see more of the creatures flying into the shuttle bay through the open ramp. They move through space naked, unless those insectlike carapaces are somehow spaceworthy armor. And there is something else coming from their ship, glimmering amid the horde... He cannot get a good look. Another of those giant creatures? No, too small.

     Irrelevant. The enemy has regrouped, and now begins to charge them again.

     "Fuck," Hawke says. He's still got a hand on Cullen's shoulder, though he shoots into the mass of the creatures with the pistol in his free hand. "Not giving you any sodding time to recharge."

     "I can," Cullen says, though he does not know the words for what he is declaring himself capable of. He feels capable of anything, his skin tingling with the bright flux of his own power. But he knows, too, instinctively, that it is raw and wild, this power; he has almost no control of it. Hawke, though. Cullen is the weapon, but Hawke has aimed and fired him. In the adrenaline rush of the moment, Cullen does not mind at all. He bares his teeth. "Let me kill them!"

     Hawke blinks at him in surprise -- then grins with a ferocity that matches his own. "Yeah, all right," he says. "Let's fuck them up good."

     He puts a hand over Cullen's, and his gaze unfocuses. Power washes through Cullen, so swift and intense that it takes his breath away. So much! "M-Maker," he gasps. "Wh-what are you -- "

     "Syncing us," Hawke says, his voice tight with concentration. "Amping you up. You can't run at full burn for long, but I'll help as much as I can." His eyes sharpen behind his face-shield. "Ready?"

     Cullen cannot answer. He is panting, shaking; everything in him is like vibrating wire. "Focus on them," Hawke says. It helps. Belatedly Cullen realizes he has shut his eyes. But he can _see_ , without eyes. The world is washed in colors and light. Before him run the creatures, sickly orange and yellow-white, their glow a nauseating roil against his eyelids. They are even more twisted, inside, than they look. But beside Cullen, a balm to their grotesquerie, is the bright outline of Hawke. At the core of Hawke there is a dark place, pulling at Cullen, a singularity to his sun -- but instead of sucking Cullen's strength, Hawke holds him steady, keeps him safe. Cullen feels a surge of something for Hawke in this moment that is not at all what he should, because Hawke is Anchorate and a terrorist and an uncouth boor of a man... but he is also Cullen's, and strong. With him at Cullen's side, Cullen can be strong as well.

     So he opens his eyes. The creatures fill his vision. There must be fifty of them, and only five soldiers stand at Cullen's side.

     _More than enough_ , he thinks savagely, and sweeps his arms forward.

     The front ranks of the charging enemy get flung away as if by colossal whips. They crunch against crates and equipment and the shuttle bay walls. The next rank fires more of those terrible particle rifles, but Cullen shouts back at them, and the beams glance away. Hawke shadows Cullen's movements, he realizes in a distant way. Not touching him anymore, but connected; they move in unison, two bodies responding to one will. Cullen is aware, too, of Hawke doing more than this -- touching and tapping those bright, hot nodes within him, amping this one and dampening that one, clearing blockages and facilitating the flow of energy. It is a delicious feeling, heady and ecstatic. Cullen crosses his arms and then pushes forth a wave of pure force. Bodies fly and he delights. The creatures scream and he hears himself laugh, wild as a storm --

     And then something slams toward him. "Fuck!" he hears Hawke cry. "Barrier, now!" Cullen is already there, already sheathing himself, but Hawke is bared to the attack and the sudden realization of this horrifies him.

     _No. Hawke must be protected!_

     So Cullen flings himself at the man, wrapping arms around him and dragging every iota of power forth from himself to extend the barrier. The wave hits and --

 

 

     light

     pain

    

 

     Very, very slowly, the world coheres.

     A crate. Damaged and leaking some kind of gel. Cullen blinks, lifts his head; it hurts. He is on the floor. Hawke lies beneath him, unmoving, though when Cullen moves, he stirs and groans a little.

     Belatedly, he becomes aware that the fight is still going on around them. Leliana screams a battle cry, gutting one of the creatures with twin omni-knives. Keran is shooting and shooting a thing that has pinned him down, ineffectually. Beyond them, more creatures gather, circling. Trying to surround Cullen again. He reaches for the power within him and finds nothing. He is empty, exhausted. His sword. If he can get the thing off Keran --

     Something glimmers beyond the creatures, and then they pause. Step back, their ranks parting. Cullen frowns as a figure floats through them, then alights on the ground. Amid the grotesquerie of the horde, his eyes lock on, because this figure is familiar in its humanity and wholesomeness. She glows as he once did, although the sheath of biotic energy which surrounds her is blue tainted with the creatures' gold, flickering sickly green as it crawls over her. And yet, within this aura of dark energy, she is beautiful. Her face, anyhow; something is wrong with the rest of her. Those awful tube-things that the creatures possess are part of her body, too, threading in and out of her armor and flesh. And yet. Human. Black hair, long and floating in the waft of energy. A broad, even-featured face that is somehow familiar, especially when she smiles. She is the one who struck at him, he understands somehow, and then he gets a sense of her power. The weight of it, pressing upon Cullen, strikes him dumb with helpless fear. But when she extends a hand in invitation, he feels a tug at the core of himself that he cannot deny.

     "If you come with me," she says, "I'll let this ship live."

     It sounds so reasonable, in this endless moment. Her voice is etched in a song; he strains to hear more of it. Except --

     _The demon_ , he thinks, and does not know why. But in spite of everything, Cullen's hand begins to rise toward her. He can't stop it.

     Except --

     _She sounds like the demon!_ But even the demon was not this powerful. Her hand is right there. Cullen's fingers touch hers. She smiles.

     "Cull," Hawke mumbles under him. He stirs more. "Cull, what. F'ing don't."

     But then. The woman flinches suddenly, stepping back and jerking her gaze up beyond Cullen. In the next instant, a thunderstorm erupts within the shuttle bay. Lances of lighting spear down from the ceiling to strike the horde, and they scream almost with one voice. Only the woman is safe, amid the front ranks of the creatures; a sphere of protective energy manifests around her as she bares her teeth and braces herself.

     _What?_ Cullen thinks in dull amazement. And then he hears the elevator doors close.

     "Get the fuck off my ship, please," says Anders, stepping forward. His omni-lance is in his hand, and -- Cullen's eyes widen. And pure biotic energy crawls over his skin, so powerful that it crazes and crackles, filling his eyes with white light.

     The woman curses, glances at Cullen again -- and then retreats, turning away and leaping into the air to float away. The creatures lift off as well, some of them grabbing her to pull her along faster, others snatching up downed comrades as they scrabble toward the ramp. Anders harries them along with shockwaves and a singularity at their backs. But as Cullen stares, Hawke abruptly shoves him off. Hawke is groggy still. Hypersensitive, Cullen can feel the waver of his awareness through their link -- but suddenly there is shock and longing and anguish reverberating between them, so powerful that it tightens Cullen's throat. None of it is Cullen's.

     "B-Bethany?" Hawke blurts. He tries to get to his feet, fails, tries again. "Bethany, _Bethany, it's me, Bethany_ \-- " Astonishingly, he lurches after the retreating creatures, as if he means to follow them into space itself. Cullen curses and grabs his arm.

     In Cullen's peripheral vision, Leliana runs to the nearest console, and a mass effect envelope materializes over the open ramp just as the last of the creatures flies off. Firing after them one-handed, Anders puts two fingers to his ear to activate shipwide comm. "Engineering, Dagna, report now. Tell me you've gotten the core restarted finally! We need to leave."

     Dagna's voice, shaken, replies, "J-just a moment, Captain! Okay, okay... please work... Core restart in three... two..." And the _Justice_ shivers as the hum of her engines resumes. The sound of it is like a heartbeat again in the breast of a fallen friend; Cullen exhales in relief.

     "Clear the shuttle bay," Anders calls. "Ground team is coming in hot; they had as much trouble as we did." The ship lurches suddenly, and their view of the alien ship spins wildly. "Damnation, Alistair, I told you to keep those bloody tentacles off my ship!"

     "I'm trying, Captain, Maker's Breath I am, but they're so _wiggly_."

     Hawke is actually struggling with Cullen. Beyond him, Cullen can see the ground team's shuttle approaching at full speed. It's damaged, he can tell already -- bleeding superheated plasma that will kill them all if they're still in the bay when it lands. There's no help for it; Cullen puts Hawke in a chokehold, dragging him back. "We have to go!"

     "My fucking sister!" It is half shout, half sob. Cullen has never seen him so distraught. Fortunately for Cullen, though, he's still too dazed to put up a real fight. "Please, Cullen! Please!"

     Keran has Nottley's body, sad limp deadweight in his arms. Leliana is half-carrying Ruvena, who grimaces and limps, but she's alive. Anders herds them all into the elevator and slams the doors shut; the instant he does, Cullen hears the roar of the shuttle's engines as it crashes into the bay. The elevator keeps them safe.

     "Full FTL to the system relay, now!" Anders shouts into his comm, and the _Justice_ leaps away from its attacker, into the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo! Notes.
> 
> -In case I had Description!Fail, these creatures are a cross between darkspawn and the Collectors. The thing that first attacked Cullen was a husk-ified ogre, because I couldn't think of anything more horrifying.
> 
> -Except the Collector's ship. I haven't fully described that one yet, but those of you who are familiar with Dragon Age probably can guess which DA monster I'm drawing on as a replacement for/fusion with Reapers in this continuity. Only one kind of darkspawn has tentacles.
> 
> -No, this is not how biotics is supposed to work in ME. I'm fusing biotics with mages, here -- so it's partly an instinctive thing, which is why Carver knows Cullen can do singularities without any specific training in doing so. Anders' spell was a Tempest, from DA2's mage tree. Yes, Anders' "omni-staff" looks his preferred mage-staff in DA2. Yes he still does all the flourishy shit with it, because Anders gonna Anders. He just _also_ shoots motherfuckers in the face with a heavy pistol.
> 
> -Yes, Bethany is the Saren of this continuity. It's a long story. Mistakes were made.
> 
> -Yeah, Anders just outed himself in front of an ex- (still, in his heart) Templar. Are mistakes being made? Stay tuned...
> 
>  
> 
> _There's no earthly way of knowing... which direction we are going... There's no knowing where we're rowing... or which way the river's flowing..._


	9. Chapter 9

     _Bethany_.

     Carver sits on a cot in medbay, brooding. Beside him stands Cullen -- also brooding, Carver's pretty sure, because it can't be easy for a (recently) ex-Templar to find out he's been working for a closted biotic all this time. But he stands over Carver, and keeps a hand on Carver's shoulder, making himself conspicuous so that the medbay staff will make time for the commander's companion. Carver's waved them off a few times, because there are people wounded worse. Cullen gives him the hairy eye for it, but fuck him. He's just hovering because Carver has a concussion and that is a solveable problem. Unlike everything else.

     The ship's lights are still in the red due to unsafe conditions. Medbay is packed with injured people -- and, most awfully, Nottley's body bag lies in the corner. Undisturbed, but still, nowhere else to put him for now; the morgue's been repurposed for triage. The PA crackles constantly in between announcements directing people to this critical repair or that one. They have escaped the monstrous ship that attacked Kanisa, but Maker, they've taken a beating. Multiple hull breaches. Life support's getting better, but still only at fifty percent. Carver hears an engineering report over the comm: gravity's off in several areas of the ship, so personnel should avoid unless they're wearing mag boots. Hilariously, there's been additional damage to the lateral struts.

     And Carver cannot bring himself to care about any of it. "Bethany," he murmurs aloud, and then rubs a hand over his face. "Fuck me and the Maker both."

     Cullen's hand on his shoulder tightens a little. Probably a reflex because of Carver's blasphemy. To Carver's surprise, though, the man's voice is gentle when he says, "Your sister, you said."

     Carver's not sure he wants to talk about his sister with Cullen. A few weeks ago, Cullen would have wanted to lock Bethany up. But he replies. "Yeah. My twin."

     Another twitch of the hand. Carver can tell he's trying for a neutral tone when he says, "She's a biotic," but he fails because he sounds confused.

     Because biotics are usually created when there's eezo contamination in utero. Templars know that if Bethany is a biotic, Carver should be one, too, or have a close personal acquaintance with cancer. Except. "Yeah. She's a late-onset, too. We were kids, but anytime after birth is considered late-onset."

     He hears the sudden understanding in Cullen's tone. "And you became an anchor as a child. _For her_."

     "Yeah. Alliance doesn't recommend the implants 'til at least twenty-one years old, because the Chantry doesn't recommend them at all. But the Anchorate actually looked at research. By scientists. Five's the recommended age." He shifts again, restless. His head hurts and he's queasy, but he can't sit still. He wishes Cullen wouldn't make him talk. Cullen's already done enough to him, damn it. But because this is unfair -- Carver is the one who decided to sync them -- he speaks again. "Haven't seen or heard from Bethany in, hnn, eight years now."

     There is a pause. "I'm sorry. That must be..." A sigh. "I'm sorry."

     Actually sounds like he means it, too. Go, him.

     Carver knows Cullen's hand isn't on his shoulder as comfort. He knows Cullen thinks he's unstable, even crazy with grief -- and maybe he is, given that Cullen had to drag him away from spacing himself or getting plasma-fried. Still, Carver puts his head down on his upraised knees, and shuts his eyes, and pretends for a while that Cullen cares about him. It helps.

     One of the medics finally hurries over to examine Carver, and determines that he just needs rest; the medi-gel took care of the worst damage. No rest is forthcoming, though; as soon as Carver gets up, Anders pings both of them via private comm.

     "Would you both come up to my quarters?" he asks. "Now that the ship isn't likely to explode in the next few minutes, I think it best we clear the air about a few things. Just the three of us."

     Carver just bets. He eyes Cullen, whose expression has gone flat and ugly. "Yeah, sounds like a plan."

     Cullen takes a moment longer to answer. Carver figures that's because the muscles in his jaw are so tight. "On my way."

     He doesn't add "ser" before he cuts the comm. For any other first officer, this would be meaningless; it was a private communication, probably off the record, and Anders definitely isn't the sort to stand on ceremony. But Cullen is, Carver's pretty sure. They start walking, and Carver takes in the stiffness of his walk and the tension in his shoulders. "Shit. Am I going to have to pull you off him?"

     Cullen's nostrils flare, though he doesn't look at Carver. "It's the middle of a shipwide emergency. Do I seem like a fool to you?"

     _Nice to have the real you back,_ Carver thinks, smiling bitterly to himself. "You seem like a Templar," he says. "One who's about to go meet the very thing Templars always warn people about: unregistered biotics hiding among us. Living their lives like normal people, so scary."

     That earns him a glare. "Anders isn't normal."

     "Good sodding thing, too, or I'd be dead and you'd be off having tea with my sister and her creepy alien friends."

     Cullen says nothing to this. But he must be noodling it, because once they're in the elevator, he says, "He should have revealed what he was sooner. It might have saved lives."

     Carver shakes his head, then smacks the elevator panel and amps up a little. There is a quick crackle; the elevator stops. "Power surge detected," says the _Justice_ VI. "Please hold for the next 100 seconds for a system safety check." Carver winces and puts a hand to the back of his head. Doing that with a concussion, even a mild one, hadn't been the best idea.

     "What did you...?" Cullen looks at the control panel, frowning.

     "Same thing I do to quell you," Carver snaps. "Brain impulses, elevator circuitry, all works pretty much the same. Now, look. You don't fucking get it, do you?"

     Cullen's frown turns frosty. "What do I not get?"

     "That you can't have it both ways." Carver starts pacing. It helps with the restlessness. "You can't threaten to kidnap and imprison people for being different, then demand that they tell everybody they're different, for fuck's sake! Either Anders registers and runs the risk that some arsehole _like you_ will clap him in irons on a whim, and he never gets a chance at command because we know the Chantry won't have it, and maybe he never even makes it into the Alliance in the first place because some bigot in boot camp grades him harder or writes him up more... or he's here and he's captain and he saves our fucking lives. One or the other. There's no middle ground because you Templars won't _let_ there be one."

     "He _lied_ to me," Cullen snaps.

     "He _had_ to. What, you never tell a lie of omission -- or commission -- when circumstances required?" And Cullen flinches, his eyes suddenly going wide, before he abruptly looks away. Well. That's a little melodramatic, but it'll do for an answer. Carver sighs and turns to face the doors again. "Yeah, well. Welcome to humanity."

     Cullen stares at him, but says nothing more as the elevator finally starts moving again.

     Carver's never been to Anders' quarters before. He'd sort of hoped to see them, but not exactly under these particular circumstances. They're mighty cozy -- a studio apartment, basically, with an office area, a neat little sectional sofa built into one wall, and a nice wide bed, beneath a viewport of the stars. There's even a fish tank, though it's empty. There are three stuffed toy cats on the desk, and it's the cutest fucking thing.

     Anders opens the door to beckon them in, and Carver immediately grabs a seat on the sectional. Anders takes the chair at the desk nearby. Cullen, predictably, stands stiff and formal at attention in the middle of the room.

     Anders eyes this, then shakes his head. "Cullen. Obviously you have permission to speak freely. I'm even willing to grant you permission to hit me -- once, thanks, and not on the nose. I've got work to do, and I can't bloody think when my nose is broken. All right?"

     Cullen shifts to "at ease," but his lip curls. "What, precisely, shall I say?"

     "What you think, perhaps?" Anders spreads his hands and grimaces. "Though, to be honest, I know what you think."

     "Do you."

     "It's not as though you've hidden your opinions about biotics from me, Cullen." Anders sits back, regarding him for a long moment, and then sighs. "I need to know if I can trust you."

     Cullen's head whips around, his mouth opening in pure incredulity. "You dare speak of _trust_?"

     " _Yes_." Anders spreads his hands in frustration. I would've told you what I am if I'd felt I could trust you. I would have preferred to get there on my own, but now that my hand's been forced, we have an opportunity. If you choose to take it." Anders gets up to pace; he looks nearly as agitated as Carver feels. "If I'm outed they'll strip me of my command and all my assets. Then they'll hand me over to the Templars. It wouldn't be the first time." He smiles thinly; Cullen blinks. Carver lifts his eyebrows, impressed. "But although I've escaped them before, I can't _count_ on doing so. So I need to know, Cullen, yes, whether you're going to turn me in. Because if you say yes, I'm going to jump ship at the next port, and you'll be acting captain 'til they haul you off, too. Thought you should know."

     Cullen stares at him. Carver shakes his head. "He's not going to turn you in."

     Now Cullen's looking daggers at Carver. "I've said no such -- "

     "He's _not going to_ ," Carver says, raising his voice and standing up to stare Cullen down even as he keeps speaking to Anders, "because you saved his fucking life and even a sodding Templar ought to have enough basic integrity to know you don't repay good with bad. Yeah?"

     Cullen's going to break his own jaw gritting his teeth -- but the appeal to his integrity has hit him hard, Carver can see. He stares at Anders for a moment, clearly wavering... but then he finally sighs and looks away. Thinking, for once, rather than just vomiting Templar bullshit and acting by rote.

     "I... would like answers to some questions," he says at last. He straightens, fists clenched at his sides, mouth drawn in a bitter line as he faces Carver. "If that is well with _you_."

     Carver rolls his eyes. Like Anders can't just get somebody he trusts to space Cullen. But then Carver figures that's why Anders is even having this meeting. He needs Cullen in his corner right now; can't afford to space a good soldier in a crisis. So he's going to let Cullen feel trusted -- even if he isn't. Anders is even going to let Cullen feel like he's got all the power here, if that's what it takes to get through this mess.

     _He's a good Captain. Who wouldn't even be one if he hadn't stayed in the closet._

     Anders folds his arms and straightens with dignity. "I can't promise I'll answer everything. There are people I have to protect. But I'll give you what I can."

     Cullen shakes his head in frustration, but he takes a deep breath. "How long have you been a biotic?"

     "Since I was born," Anders answers. "Happened the old-fashioned way with me. My parents were some of the first colonists to leave Earth for the Traverse. They settled on a tainted world, blighted centuries before by a ship crash, though no one knew it at first. I was born, and had a bright future ahead of me as a farmboy. Then when I was twelve, I set the barn on fire with my mind."

     Cullen frowns back at him over his shoulder. "Better the barn than a person," Carver says, sitting back to get comfortable on the couch.

     Anders shrugs. "I've always thought so."

     Cullen digests this. "Why didn't your family give you to the Templars?"

     "Well, they did, actually." Anders smiles brightly. "Back then, people still thought the Order meant it when it said it just wanted to help biotics. So they bundled me into an electrified prison shuttle and hauled me off to a place where, for the next few years, I was beaten and put into solitary confinement and stripped even of my name. I escaped several times, but they always caught me -- until the last time." He shrugs.

     "You escaped a Templar containment facility?" Cullen says, incredulous.

     Anders smirks. "What, like it's hard?"

     "Don't be an arse," Carver says, wearily, to both of them. "Cull, Templars aren't sodding infallible. The Anchorate gets dozens of people out of those camps, every year. Terrorist, remember?" Cullen bares his teeth at Carver and turns away again. To Anders, Carver says, "Right. So the Anchorate got you out."

     "No, I got _myself_ out." Anders looks pointedly at Cullen's back. Then he sighs. "But the last time, I had just been recaptured, and was being taken back by two Templars, when Anchorate agents intercepted us. They... persuaded... the Templars to turn me over to them."

     Cullen makes a sound of disgust. "Then Templar blood is on your hands."

     "Possibly, though they were alive when I last saw them." Anders says it lightly, and smiles. This seems to infuriate Cullen more. "And if they were hurt, well, considering how much of my blood was on their hands at the time, I call it even."

     This, to Cullen's credit, makes him wince and turn to face Anders. "I am aware that there are... occasional abuses. Some take the mandate of the Order too far. I am sorry, that you suffered."

     That... Carver stares at Anders, wondering if he just hallucinated the previous ten seconds. Anders stares back, openmouthed. Cullen grimaces at them both and adds, "As you say, I consider myself a man with _integrity_. I cannot repay truth with anything less than truth."

     Anders finally nods, though he still seems dazed. "Well. Thank you for being honest, for what that's worth. Wish more Templars were."

     Cullen sighs. "I have more questions. Tell me how, if -- You have obviously been anchored."

     "Obviously." Now Anders glances at Carver. "After the camp, I lived in one of your training centers until I was old enough to go off to the Alliance Academy. Much better than prison, by the way; thank you."

     Carver nods. He's already figured Anders for Anchorate, because Anders is too confident and comfortable in himself. Kids who've spent too much time in the Templar camps, even if they're lucky enough to escape, are hunched, scared things, barely in control of themselves because they've barely been given enough time with an anchor to develop properly. Anders got out early enough to recover, it seems -- and he must have gotten away from the Anchorate before he came of age, too, or he'd have been registered. The Anchorate mostly tries to play ball with the Alliance, hoping to end the rampant discrimination against biotics with respectability. Carver has his doubts about how that's going to work out, but he isn't a biotic; not his choice to make. "Who was your anchor?" he asks, just out of idle curiosity.

     Anders purses his lips for a moment, then says, "Doesn't matter. He's dead. And forgive me, but I'd rather not discuss that right now." He faces Cullen. "Had your fill of questions?"

     "Not quite." Cullen's jaw flexes. "Would you have let me die rather than reveal yourself?"

     Anders frowns. "Well, that's a stupid fucking question," Carver tells Cullen.

     Cullen's voice is lethal. "What?"  


     He gestures at Anders. "What the fuck do you think a _biotic_ could have done, Cull? Other than what he did, which was get you to a base as fast as he could, and put out a call for somebody like me to show up? He couldn't anchor you, and couldn't even train you without an anchor." While Cullen frowns at Anders, Carver gets up. He's too restless to hold still, and he's tired of this shit. "You're not mad at Anders. You're mad at yourself. You figure you should've spotted him before now, yeah? Because you've got this, this _picture_ in your head of what unregistered biotics are like, and it's stereotypical bullshit instead of reality. The reality is this!" He gestures at Anders, who lifts an eyebrow. "Now, can we talk about my bloody sister, or do we have to go on smoothing your fucking ruffled feathers for the rest of the night?"

     Cullen stares at him, but then his expression tightens. "Whatever your sister has become," he says, "is what Templars exist to prevent."

     Oh, this son of a bitch. Carver glares at him, breathing hard, hating him so much. But. It hurts because it's true, doesn't it? That makes Carver hate him even more.

     "I don't see how Templars _could_ prevent something like this," Anders says with a sigh, turning and sitting down at his desk again. When both Carver and Cullen glare at him, Anders smiles wearily. "The situation has gone beyond our little human squabbles, my friends. These new aliens are hostile, they are significantly more advanced than us, and they are _after_ us. After _you_ , Cullen."

     That breaks the detente between him and Cullen. Carver takes a step back, and Cullen turns away, letting out a hard sigh. "Yes. I had noted their attempts to separate and surround me." Then he blinks, tensing. "And -- you _knew_. Is that why you wouldn't let me lead the ground team? You suspected I would be the target?"

     Anders grimaces, but nods. "I'd had, well, _information from a credible source_ that the attack on Kanisa might have bee more than just an ordinary slaving run. Kanisa was full of biotics, you see, including three late-onsets. Whoever these aliens are, that's what they're looking for: people like you, Cullen."

     Cullen looks deeply uneasy, like he fucking should. Carver sighs and braces a hand against the wall. "Yeah. Figured that when they took Bethy, but I haven't been able to prove it all this time." Bethany. He closes his eyes and sees her again in the shuttle bay: as beautiful as always, but so cold. Had she even recognized Carver? And what was wrong with her? His hand tightens into a fist. "Knew she was alive. When you forge an anchor link that strong with somebody, it never really goes away even after it's broken. I could _feel_ her out there. 'Swhy I never gave up looking."

     He becomes aware of silence then, from both of his companions. Belatedly he realizes his face is wet with tears. Well, he's the one who wanted to talk about Bethany. He rubs one bodysuited hand over his face. The stuff isn't absorbent at all; really just smears tears everywhere. Fuck it.

     After a moment, Cullen takes a deep breath and says to Anders, "I... will forego reporting you." He hesitates, then adds, "At least... until this mission is complete. I... I cannot see that rule is served by ruining you. Not... at this time."

     "Well, I'm happy to hear that," Anders drawls. Still, there's another moment of silence, this time reverberating, because it's actually kind of fucking amazing that Cullen has unbent enough for even this. Carver sniffs and frowns at Anders; Anders eyes him back, and then shrugs, regarding Cullen contemplatively. "I _am_ glad, Cullen, in all seriousness. I can order Keran and the others that were in the shuttle bay not to talk -- and I gather they're the sorts to put lives saved before scripture, in any case. But I knew that wouldn't work with you. And now that trust has been forced upon us, I would like the chance to _earn_ yours, finally. Will you allow that?"

     Cullen blinks as if the notion of establishing trust is something he can't even comprehend. After a moment, though, he inclines his head -- stiffly, awkwardly, jerkily. Looks like it hurts. But he does it.

     "Then," Anders says, getting to his feet. "Let's proceed to the conference room. Aveline's ready to make her report."

#

     Aveline sits bent, with her elbows propped on her knees. She's still in armor, and it is liberally splattered with dried blood. There's even a streak of it across her cheek. She doesn't seem to notice.

     "I heard your warning, Specialist Hawke," she says. "Thanks for that. If we'd gone into that facility blind, they would have cut us apart."

     Carver nod slowly. He knows.

     "Instead, we bunkered down on the shuttle pad, especially as we started to hear what was happening up here. I figured the captain would call for an extraction, and I'd been thinking it might be better to break orders and extract anyway. Sounded like you all needed help up here."

     Sten, who is Aveline's second in command for security, says, "We survived."

     Aveline smiles thinly. "I suppose that's true. Anyhow." Her smile fades. "We were still bunkered when Williams -- I'd _told_ him to leave the bloody thing alone. But -- those devices. One of them went off." She chokes. "It... it was like he couldn't help himself. He was leaning over it, and... and it... _impaled_ him. And while we were distracted dealing with that -- trying to get him off of it -- the rest of them attacked. Hundreds of creatures, like..." She falters silent.

     "Like what happens when you strip all the mind and soul out of a human being, and replace it with fucked-up technology," Carver says. They all look at him. He's sitting back against an instrument panel, legs splayed, too tired and heartbroken to give a shit anymore about military protocol. He knows his smile is an ugly thing right now, and he doesn't care. "Like little moaning creatures with glowing blue eyes that run at you, and swipe at you, and don't die 'til you've shot 'em twenty times or maybe cut their fucking heads off. Yeah?" Aveline stares at him, but then nods slowly.

     "You obviously know what they are," Sten says. "Explain."

     Carver laughs a little, then lowers his gaze. He's put his foot in it now. But that isn't a bad thing. He _needs_ to talk, right now.

     "The Traverse is big," he says. "And wild. S'why the Council races haven't bothered trying to settle it, leaving that for us younger races to hack through. They know there's horrors out there." He takes a deep breath. "Beth and I, we worked together for a long time after we left the Anchorate training center. Joined the Alliance together. Made N7 together. Fought at Ostagar together. What do you all know about what happened at Ostagar?"

     "A pirate swarm," says Leliana. Carver's not sure what she's officer of, but she's here so she must be one. "A massive fleet of them, so big they wiped out Cailan's Tenth nearly to the last ship -- Cailan included. Testimony from Loghain, the only one of his officers to survive, made it Cailan's fault. Committed his dreadnoughts too soon, or something."

     Anders, who up to this point has lurked in the background, listening and observing, holds up a finger. "Ah -- that's not what I've heard. Rumor has it that the Tenth met some kind of alien force out there. Something so powerful that a single ship took out all the dreadnoughts and cruisers. Something so horrible on the planet's surface that almost nobody survived the ground assault." Everyone stares at him, and Anders shrugs. "Sounded melodramatic to me, too. But there's a brass-level embargo on information relating to the attack. Figures; the Chantry's spent years preaching that we'll be safe from alien threats if we remain isolated and attend to our own business. We did that in the Traverse, and lost the Tenth. It's an embarrassment. Even asking too many questions about it can get you cashiered."

     "Yeah, that's the Maker's truth," Carver says, grinning. "S'why I got put out."

     Cullen jerks around to stare at him. "You were dishonorably discharged?"

     "Nah." Carver laughs. Cull's so willing to believe the worst about him. It's almost cute. "I'm one of the few people who survived the Ostagar ground assault. They'd already missed their chance to call me a deserter, and they'd been holding me up as a hero. I didn't give a shit about that -- 'til they closed the inquest into Bethany's disappearance and listed her as KIA. Then I started talking, telling people what I'd really seen at Ostagar Colony. They gave me early retirement to shut me up, and behind the scenes said I was so fucked up with PTSD that nobody should listen to anything I said." He shrugs, though it still hurts. Not the brass's censure; he didn't give a fuck about those people. But a lot of his own fellow survivors had started to doubt what they'd seen by then, after a couple of years of military gaslighting. When they'd rejected him, Carver had known it was time to leave. "Went back to the Anchorate after that. Without my sister, I... needed to be useful."

     Cullen frowns and shakes his head a little, as if he finds this hard to comprehend. Aveline says, very softly, "Those things were on the ground, then. At Ostagar."

     Carver nods. "Ostagar's an old planet. Lots of ruins of some sort. Not the same aliens who left stuff on the moon for us to find and learn mass effect tech from; older. So the human colony there was huge, full of scientists and backed by corporate research money. Quarter of a million people, all hoping to scrape something out of those ruins that'll give us an advantage against the Council races." He sighs. "The distress call -- we'd gotten that three days before we reached the colony -- said pirates, so that was what we went in ready for. So fucking prepared."

     If Carver lets himself, he will remember the eerie silence of the Ostagar colony, in the moments before the storm hit. And then -- the massed moaning of hundreds of thousands of tortured voices --

     He doesn't let himself remember. Focus on the present. He faces Aveline, because she's the one who needs to know what she was up against, and that getting anyone out alive makes her a fucking hero. "Not a soul in the place was still human," he says. "Those spike things were everywhere, though. So. And the enemy had a dreadnought. Biggest thing you ever saw -- two or three times the size of ours. Except it was _organic_ , sort of. Like... nobody was sure it was a ship." He sighs and shakes his head. "I don't know. They'd grabbed and dragged off Bethany by that point. I wasn't... wasn't coherent. The stuff about the ship is what other people told me, anyway, not anything I eyeballed myself."

     Alistair stirs. "Well, _I_ eyeballed it, and it's just about the worst thing I've ever seen," he says. He looks up at them, haunted and shaken. "Wish I could unsee it. But I can't tell you _what_ I saw. It was... It moved like something alive. It had... alive bits. It also had lights and gun ports, and sodding fast engines." He scowls. "And just one hit took our drive core offline and nearly the whole power grid with it."

     Dagna, sitting in a human-sized chair with her small legs drawn up to her chest, smiles weakly. "Good thing I installed some backup workarounds," she says, and then her smile fades entirely. "Poor Wade."

     "He'll be fine, Dagna," Anders says gently. "The doctor says the burns are responding well to the specialized medi-gel for plasma. Herren said to tell you thank you for saving his husband."

     She shivers a little, but nods. When she puts her head down on her folded arms, Carver watches her shoulders shake and thinks, _Lot of walking wounded on this ship now_. Well, not so different from Ostagar, that.

     Watching her try not to cry, Anders comes forward and puts a hand on her shoulder. It's just a brief gesture, but it makes Carver like Anders about a hundred thousand times more. Nice to see real caring, right now. Then Anders sighs. "So here's the situation," he says to all of them. "The _Justice_ can fly, but only FTL engines. We're all right because we got to a relay, and apparently the enemy cannot track us through that. But if that changes, and there's a fight, we've got no maneuvering thrusters, and no long-range engines. Dagna, how long 'til the drive core is back up to full functioning?"

     "Three days," she mumbles from within the circle of her arms.

     Anders sighs and nods. "And during that time, we cannot report back to the Alliance. We can't call for help." The staff stirs, murmuring; Anders waits until they subside again. "We don't know anything about that dreadnought. If it can hack comm buoys, then any transmission we send will be a beacon leading it right to us. And we can't fight that beast of a ship again. We can't even fight all the sodding slaver ships that were in that system -- who tried to catch us, if you don't know, as we were high-tailing it for the relay."

     It's Carver's turn to frown. "Slavers? No. Bethany would never."

     Leliana grimaces. "Specialist Hawke -- "

     "She _wouldn't_." He sounds like a child, he realizes -- but he can't help it. "She's my bloody sister and we both fucking despise slavers, killed enough of 'em between us to fill a dreadnought, and _she wouldn't work with slavers!_ "

     Leliana winces silent. Everyone else looks uncomfortable as the Void. So it's Cullen, of course, who sighs and says, "She clearly has no choice in the matter."

     "What?" Is it another insult? Carver's fucking done with his insults.

     But there is nothing in Cullen's face but sober truth, so frank that Carver cannot deny it. He turns to face Carver -- big man in big shiny Guardian-style armor, scorched all over because biotics fucks up normal armor and he wouldn't fucking listen when Carver told him to get new plates. Still, he looks strong and reliable and battle-hardened, and Carver wishes so much he could trust Cull right now. He needs -- but no. Not with this man. Not ever.

     Cullen says to Carver, but he's looking around at all of them, "They are all of a piece. The spike devices, the creatures on the planet, the creatures that boarded us. Hawke's sister. The slavers. _They're all working together._ But... to steal biotics from Kanisa?" He inhales then, some dawning realization in his expression. "Maker. And probably Ostagar, and other places as well. We of the Order -- " He stops. Another deep breath. "The Order... has monitored a significant decline in the number of biotics apprehended, in recent years. It does not follow our projections. Given increased Alliance use of eezo, the number of human biotics should have _increased_. We -- They... were vexed by this."

     "Fewer poor souls to sell to your private prison companies," Leliana mutters. Carver jerks in surprise. He hadn't figured her for a Chantry critic. Or maybe she's just a Templar critic. These last few years, under Meredith, the Templars have been pissing everybody off, Chantry loyalists included.

     Cullen takes that hit better than Carver would have expected, letting out a slow deep breath to calm himself. "Perhaps," he admits. "That _is_ how the Templars have funded themselves, in addition to Chantry support. Meredith believes the Anchorate to be the source of the discrepancy. I did, too, until now." He sighs, then spreads his hands and grimace-smiles. "Even we did not think it might be aliens."

     Carver stares at him, belatedly realizing that was a joke. "Maker's Cock," he mutters. "World really is coming to an end."

     Anders shakes his head. "Not if we all do our jobs. Now. While Engineering and other departments manage repairs, I want shuttle patrols, readiness drills. We'll need double shifts, and..."

     It's about here that Carver tunes out. He's tired, and his head still hurts, and his whole fucking heart aches like it's been beaten. So he zones, and it feels like only a minute later that Anders touches his forearm and makes him start. Beyond him the staff are filing out; meeting's over. Cullen is speaking with Aveline, though as Carver watches they finish up, and he comes over to stand with Carver and Anders. This reminds Carver of his duty, and he sighs and pushes back his misery about Bethany enough to get to his feet.

     "You're not well," Anders says to Carver, examining him critically.

     "Mild concussion," Carver says. "Some rest and I'll be fine."

     "Then rest." Anders eyes Cullen. There's no one else in the room at this point, the rest of the staff having filed out. "And you were at full burn before you fell, today. I saw you. You need food."

     "I can endure -- " Cullen begins.

     "Don't be foolish." Anders claps a hand over his armor and activates a pocket on one tasset. He pulls out two energy bars and hands one to Cullen. "You're one of this ship's most critical weapons right now, Cullen -- or didn't you notice that only biotics are effective against those creatures at range? Probably why they sodding want us." He shakes his head. "We can't afford to have you too weak to fight. Eat; that's an order. And then go get four hours of sleep. Not much, I know, but I can hold on that long before I fall down." He starts eating his own bar.

     Cullen blinks, but begins eating the bar. Wolfing it, actually, after the first taste; guiltily Carver realizes he should've been the one to give that to Cullen. He's doing a shitty job, and it has to stop.

     "Come on," Carver says, patting Cullen's shoulder once he's done eating the bar. "To the mess. Both of us need real food, a real shower, and real sleep." He eyes Anders. "I'll be back when he's up, to run you off."

     Anders raises his eyebrows, then looks amused. "You're not my anchor, Hawke; don't mother-hen me."

     "I won't, if you go off without back-talk." He winks, then turns to herd Cullen away.

     Cullen is quiet as they move through the ship. The smell of smoke still hangs in the air on the crew level, and half of the lights are out. There's no food prepared yet, since dinner's not for hours, but Carver gestures for Cullen to sit at the same island where he kissed Anders, and he rummages in the fridge for meal fixings.

     Cullen looks uncomfortable. "I can simply eat another energy bar. There are some in that drawer -- "

     "Those are for a pinch." Carver pulls out frozen waffles and bacon, which should be quick and easy to reheat, and meanwhile tosses Cullen an apple. "When you have time, always eat real food."

     Cullen shakes his head, but starts eating the apple, because despite his stiffnecked pride, he's probably starving. The waffles are hot by the time the apple is done, and Carver sets the plate in front of him before rummaging for syrup. By the time he finds it, Cullen's downed the first of the waffles, buttered but syrupless. Carver laughs despite himself, though it makes Cullen flush guiltily. "Bury that," Carver says, shaking his head and reaching over to pour syrup onto Cullen's waffles himself. "You need the carbs, eat the carbs, don't wait on me. And don't be fucking ashamed of it, either. You heard Anders. Got to keep your gun loaded." On a better day, he would laugh at the double entendre of the saying, but he's not feeling it.

     Cullen has been so silent that Carver knows he's thinking. And sure enough, after a bit, he says, "That... what I did on the shuttle deck."

     "Kicked arse, you mean?" Carver pours him a bit orange juice, then has some for himself too.

     "Well... yes. But how?" Cullen shakes his head. "I did not know how to throw a singularity, and then I did. And that other thing, the, the slice -- "

     "S'called the lash technique." Carver gulps juice. "Except most biotics use it like a whip. You being swordy obviously put an edge on yours. As for how -- Well, that's why I wanted to get you into combat. Remember how I pointed out that you didn't want to kill me with that cup?"

     "Ah. And because I meant to kill those creatures..."

     "Yep, killed the fuck out of them. As for the shape your biotics took -- " Carver shrugs. "Your biotics become what you need them to become. For now, it's all instinct, but with time, you'll learn to shape it consciously, too."

     A slow nod. "And... you did something to me." Cullen looks away. "'Amping you up,' you said. It felt -- " And all at once he cuts himself off, in consternation.

     Carver gets it, at once. "'Like being king of the mountain,'" he says -- and then it is his turn to cut himself off. That was what Bethany always said a full-burn resonance felt like.

     Cullen glances sharply at him, and Carver is surprised that he looks distinctly uncomfortable. "Yes," he says. "I suppose. But... is it addictive?"

     "What?" Carver starts. "Resonating? Maker, no, not for you. No more than, like, sex." Which sometimes is addictive. "Fuck. Wait. All right, more like... You know how when you're standing side by side with your mates, because someone's gotten into your face or messed with one of you? And you step forward and you _know_ they've got your back, so you feel a little like the Maker Himself for a minute? It's like that. See? When I'm in tune with you, you know you're not alone on the battlefield. I've got your back."

     "Like the Maker Himself," Cullen murmurs, musing. "It is... blasphemous, perhaps. To feel like the Maker when I am but a man."

     Was it? Carver tries to remember if there's some Chant verse against it. _Accursed are those who administer Class-Five beatdowns and actually enjoy doing it,_ or something like? "Maybe," he says, finally, turning his back on Cullen to lean against the island. He's tired. "Fuck, I don't know. I stopped actually believing in the Maker eight years ago."

     He is aware of Cullen's gaze on his back, and doesn't care. He drinks his juice.

     After Cullen's had a solid meal and Carver's gulped a sandwich, they head back to their quarters and Carver waves Cullen toward the shower first. "Four hours, remember," he mumbles, before falling into bed himself -- gingerly, given the concussion. Lying down makes the pain of the headache worse, somehow, and out of old habit he reaches back to rub at the nape of his neck. The muscles there and through his shoulders are hot and sore. It's not burnout flux, but it's definitely a sign that he got too into it with Cullen, and overdid things. But it had been so good, hadn't it, for those few minutes? Every sense overcharged, skin singing and teeth aching and ears itching and the scent of alien blood and ozone sharp in his nostrils. Raising his (Cullen's) hands and baring his (Cullen's) teeth and -- Carver shudders, shuts his eyes, but still -- and crouching with his (Cullen's) muscles tight before unleashing the Void on those bastards... Maker, so good.

     He wishes someone would give him a scalp massage. Bethany had been the best at those. Carver's anchored maybe a dozen biotics since, and some of them were better than Bethy in technique -- helped that he was boning some of 'em -- but none matched her for gentleness of hands, or for love. He misses the love, damn it. He misses his sister.

     He isn't asleep before his head hits the pillow, but it's a narrow thing.

     And before he does sleep, he becomes aware of Cullen in the door of his room, watching him. But Cullen does nothing, says nothing, and by morning Carver forgets that it ever happened.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: "Awkward Boners" and "pantsfeelings" are tags on this fanfic.

     A few moments after Hawke's breathing slows and eases into faint snoring, Cullen finds himself kneeling on the bed beside the man's curled body.

     Carefully, so as not to wake him. So too is he careful as he tugs down the collar of Hawke's bodysuit. Hawke snores, oblivious, but Cullen can sense his utter exhaustion. It has been a day of exhilarations and horrors, revelations and reckonings, and it has left both of them raw -- but in Hawke the pain is a physical as well as spiritual malaise. Cullen can feel the heat beneath Hawke's skin, the soreness of tight and overtaxed muscles, the dull ache rising from the middle of his back to become a pounding agony in his head.

     Cullen's glowing again, the sheath of biotics a slow churn around him. Why? He does not understand himself anymore. If nothing else, that is an argument for biotics to be put into safe places away from normal populations, because it is increasingly clear that much of their behavior is driven by incomprehensible instinct and bizarre, barely-controlled compulsions. But for now... Cullen gazes at his glowing hand, and knows he needs to do this.

     Hawke's neck. Cullen runs the glimmering ball of one thumb hard against a tendon. He has no fear of waking Hawke; he can feel himself meshing with his anchor again the way they did during the battle. Then, Hawke's mind told Cullen's body how to work to its fullest. Now, Cullen's mind wills Hawke's body to remain asleep, and on some level he is aware of reinforcing this with biotics. It's gentle. One nervous system soothing another. He means no harm. And so he presses gently, willing the spasming muscles to relax, the inflammation to ease, the bruising to heal more quickly. He has no idea how he's doing this -- but it works. Hawke groans a little as his pain eases, and then he settles at once into a deeper, more restful sleep. Yes, good.

     But Cullen's biotics have not settled. It's like that first day when they practiced; the blue glow of Cullen's aura has settled over Hawke's whole back and head, and threatens to explore further. The biotics _want_ to explore further -- and for an instant, when Cullen wills them to subside and they do not, he is afraid.

     No. Hawke has said to be calm. So Cullen takes a deep breath, and whispers a verse from Trials, and then tries again. This time the amorphous glow contracts, withdrawing -- reluctantly, though, it seems to Cullen -- back into his hand. Then the glow finally wicks out.

     Leaving Cullen kneeling over Hawke as he wonders what in the Maker's name he's doing.

     _Just your biotics wanting a little taste_ , he hears Hawke explain, again.

     It isn't lust. That's what scares Cullen more than anything else. He could reject lust as a depraved part of himself, or as a sin, or as professionally inappropriate if nothing else. This, though? This he has no idea what to do with.

     Shaking, he carefully climbs off of Hawke and retreats to his own quarters. Only his own exhaustion lets him sleep, and it is fitful and uneasy the whole time.

#

     He oversleeps, and is blearly dragged awake by the _Justice_ VI's voice, sounding testier than usual in the confines of his room. "Commander Rutherford," it snaps, with a lot of emphasis on the _man_ syllable. "Captain Anders awaits your relief."

     "Mnh," he says, pushing himself up even though his mind is still half a-dream. His alarm pings loudly until he slaps it silent; he's slept right through it. "Yes. Thank you. I will... fifteen minutes. Please. Tell him."

     "Very well, Commander."

     Opening the door of his room lets in an aroma of food that awakens powerful hunger in Cullen, banishing his sleep-haze almost at once. Maker, he needs to _eat_. And shower, and dress, and report -- so picking up the pace, he goes into the living room. There's a tray of food on the small dining table: soup and a big sandwich from the mess, in foil and still hot, and coffee. A note on top reads, "CULLEN" in Hawke's blocky sprawl. Very well then. Cullen grabs the sandwich, tucking in as he heads over to his armor drawer to see if the cleaning cycle has gotten the scorch marks off -- And then he stops, registering belatedly that Hawke is still in the apartment, for once.

     In fact, Hawke is in the doorway of his quarters, doing pull-ups on that bar he's installed. Virtual earbuds glow in his ears, blasting something that sounds like asari club music at unhealthy decibels. He's facing into the room, and probably hasn't noticed Cullen. Though that could also be because he's hitting the bar hard -- no pauses, no lingering on the down-strokes, just quick, fierce pulls behind his head. He's put on sweatpants and stripped to the waist for this, and good thing; Cullen sees that his pants are soaked dark. He must have been at it for a while.

     It is a mesmerizing thing to watch. Hawke is all clean lines and strength, moving in a steady, graceful rhythm that makes the muscles of his back flow beneath his skin. His legs hang loose, crossed at the ankles, but he keeps his core engaged, as is proper for full spacer PT. It's strange; Cullen forgets often that Hawke was N7. He does not think of Hawke as a fellow soldier; he thinks of Hawke as his anchor. It should be both, should it not? They have stood shoulder to shoulder on the field of battle. And even if Cullen must endure his rudeness and high-handedness and immoral affiliations, it is impossible for Cullen to say now that he does not _respect_ Hawke. Given all that Hawke has endured, and given how he has devoted himself to helping others... It is admirable. _Hawke_ is admirable. Perhaps, if the circumstances of their meeting had been better, they might have been friends.

     A mesmerizing thing indeed, the steady flex of Hawke's long, strong thighs. Cullen lifts the sandwich for another bite and only belatedly registers that his hands are glowing again. Alarmed, he fumbles the sandwich, dropping it -- although before it can reach the floor, it stops, hovers for an instant, then snaps back up into his hand. Convenient.

     Hawke pauses on a downstroke, releasing one hand and turning his head a little. "Oh, hey," he says, dropping to the floor and reaching for a towel. "Was gonna come get you. You overslept."

     "Y-yes," Cullen says, frantically willing his hands to stop glowing. They don't. "I, ah, I thank you, for the meal."

     "S'my job." Not turning to see Cullen, Hawke runs a hand over his wet hair and sighs. He will need another shower after this. "You going in right now? I'll do a two-minute rinse-off, if you're still eating."

     "I am," Cullen says, desperately trying to sound normal. "Go ahead."

     "Right." Hawke vanishes into the bathroom.

     Calm, Cullen tells himself. He sits down at the table, painfully aware of his own agitation. All this over a dropped sandwich --

     _It's not the bloody sandwich and you know it,_ whispers a snide little voice in his mind that sounds entirely too much like Hawke.

     Calm. Cullen swallows and murmurs a prayer, which worked before. When it doesn't this time, he tries just eating, hoping routine will ease the reaction. This works better. By the time he's finished the sandwich, the glow has faded. Thank the Maker.

     Hawke emerges, still wet but cleaner this time, with a towel around his hips and another over his head. He still doesn't look at Cullen, and for the first time Cullen registers this as odd. Hawke feels of restlessness, too, in that peculiar space where Cullen is ever aware of him. Fidgety and tense, full of pent energy despite having just finished hard exercise. As Cullen watches, Hawke heads into his room and jumps up to touch the bar in passing as he does so. It's meaningless. Boyish silliness. Isn't it?

     Typically, Hawke does not bother to close the door while he changes into a clean bodysuit. Cullen quickly looks away and heads into the shower himself.

     When he's out -- having donned his own bodysuit in the bathroom -- Hawke has just finished armoring up, and is checking the fit of his vambraces. "Hey," he says to Cullen over his shoulder, "I requisitioned you some new armor." He jerks his head, and there is a case over on the couch with _Ariake Industries_ branded on its side.

     Cullen stiffens, consternation forgotten amid anger. Hawke has been trying to replace his armor since he arrived. And Cullen knows, far better than Hawke, that he is no longer a Templar, but he is still a Guardian-class soldier, and --

     _but biotics do not use the Guardian class_

     -- he flinches.

     Hawke, astonishingly, has not noticed Cullen's reaction. "I'm just saying," Hawke says, running gloved fingers through his hair to accomplish his grooming, "yours is half fried to hell. Guardian armor circuitry isn't insulated against dark energy, so every time you let loose, you're fucking it all up. You should try something that's not going to give out on you and start feeling like it weighs an extra fourteen or fifteen kilos in the middle of a fight."

     That is... reasonable. And Cullen is being unreasonable. And Anders is waiting. The _Justice_ has no time for an unreasonable Commander. "...Very well."

     He is astonished, when he opens the Ariake case, to find a shining silver breastplate edged with red lines. There is even -- he lifts the pauldron for the left shoulder, and peers closely at it. Not the Templars' sword-in-flames, but the flame-circle of the Andrastean faith nevertheless. Hawke must have ordered the armor, and paid extra for this small customization. Cullen's throat tightens as he fingers it.

     "Figure they can't give you shit about that, at least," Hawke says, coming over to peer at it. When Cullen turns to him, mute and overwhelmed, Hawke glances at him -- apparently forgetting that he's decided not to look at Cullen. He laughs a little at Cullen's reaction, good naturedly, then claps him hard on the shoulder. "Hurry up and put it on, Anders is gonna be a wanker about it if we take much longer."

     So Cullen dons the armor, with Hawke's assistance. It is much lighter and less bulky than his Guardian set, and he notices a faint hum as he dons each plate. And he feels... different. More energetic? Cullen flexes his shoulders experimentally. The hum is oddly soothing.

     "This is actually optimized for biotics," Hawke says, walking around him and checking the seals quickly. "Got little generators and frequency balancers all through it, so take it to a real tech if you need to get it fixed, yeah? Don't mod it yourself, or you'll fuck everything up." He steps back to give Cullen a once-over -- and then stops. Something abruptly freezes in his expression. The next instant he turns away, sharply.

     But Cullen has sensed it, because it hit Hawke suddenly and hard, and even now that he has turned away, it churns just beneath his skin, raw and undeniable. Sexual interest. Arousal, breathtakingly intense.

     For _Cullen_.

     As Cullen stares at him, incredulous, Hawke sighs and rubs the back of his head. "Fuck," he mutters irritably, and then quickly shakes his head. Cullen can feel him trying to tamp the feeling down and focus. Then he seems to notice Cullen's silence, because a ripple of embarassment and worry flutters through him. Maybe he fears Cullen will notice? "You look fine," he says, not looking at Cullen again. His voice is gruff. "Let's go."

     It is inexplicable. But duty calls, so Cullen focuses too, and they head to the CIC.

     Things look and feel better all over the ship. The _Justice_ VI has switched the light scheme back to blue, and the teams that they pass as they move through the halls aren't hurrying quite so fast. Cullen hears only one PA alert, notifying everyone that full gravity has been restored on all decks. He can tell that things aren't 100%, however; the lights waver a little, which means the drive core hasn't been fully tuned, and the ship still feels as if it's listing a little. The stabilizers and gyroscopic sensors must be malfunctioning, which means the ship is still too crippled to be effective in battle. And the stabilizers are the worst of it, Cullen knows. Those parts are demonishly difficult to minifacture. He prays Dagna will find a way -- or they might be stranded in this empty region of space for quite some time.

     Anders is standing at the galaxy map, staring into it and scowling so hard that Cullen almost cannot tell how exhausted he is. He looks angry. He blinks and looks around in surprise when Cullen announces himself and salutes, however, so perhaps he was just deep in concentration. "Ah, much better," he says, having assessed Cullen in turn; he smiles. "You're looking nicely human again."

     It's typical Anders-ish humor, poking directly at a sensitive topic. Anders is too nice to be a bully, but he does have claws, and sometimes he extends them a bit, just for show. Cullen sighs and assumes "at ease." "Perhaps you should see to your own rest, ser."

     "A moment." Anders resumes scowling at the map. "We keep getting a sensor blip, and it's driving me spare. There!" He points.

     Cullen looks, and yes, there is a tiny point of light on the edge of the sensor region that the _Justice_ has on display. In the next instant, it vanishes.

     "Oh, you little _bastard_ ," Anders growls. "Now you're just playing with me."

     "I will watch for it during my shift," Cullen assures him. Though most likely, it's just a glitch. Half the ship is glitchy right now, and the other half is broken outright. Anders is probably edging into glitchy territory himself. "Ser."

     "I know you think it's just a glitch, Rutherford, but -- " Hawke has peeled off from Cullen, all of a sudden. Cullen blinks as he climbs the ramp to the map con, takes Anders' hand, and slaps another foil-wrapped sandwich into it. Anders' expression is comical. "What in the Void."

     "Eat," Hawke says, and then points to the elevator. "And march. Or do I have to pull rank?"

     "I'm the captain of the bloody ship," Anders snaps.

     "And I'm a Class Five-rated anchor." He doesn't add _and you're a Class Four biotic_ , but Cullen knows it's in his face.

     "The Anchorate doesn't -- Oh, for the Maker's -- fine." Anders glowers at Hawke -- but complies, which tells Cullen more about how things are managed in the Anchorate than any explanation could. The rest of the CIC crew are likely to misinterpet it, of course; Cullen sees them watching this exchange and stifling smiles. Now they will think Hawke is another of Anders' paramours, and pushier than most --

     But then, has Hawke not already had dinner with Anders? And what happened after dinner?

     Cullen moves over to a console to check repair time estimates, but his thoughts linger on the matter. Hawke and Anders are talking quietly, now, behind him. He should not listen. He should not --

     "There," Anders is saying. "I've eaten half, and I'll take care of the rest in my quarters. All right?"

     "Should've eaten before now. You know energy bars are nothing but sugar." Then Hawke sighs in frustration and works his shoulders again, then bounces a little on the balls of his feet.

     Anders, concerned: "Hawke..."

     Hawke, too quickly: "M'fine. Don't worry about it.

     Anders, sighing. "When we're out of emergency status? I was Anchorate, Hawke. No strings."

     A long silence. But in it, Hawke is relieved, anxious, unhappy, longing. "Not how I wanted it. But... yeah, all right. Thanks."

     Anders claps him on the shoulder. Then, turning -- his gaze raking Cullen as he does so, in a way that Cullen cannot interpret -- he heads for the elevator and his quarters.

     Hawke comes back to stand just behind Cullen, shadowing him as before, expression schooled to neutrality. But Cullen can feel how wire-strung he is. As Cullen resumes his duties, Hawke's frustration is a constant distraction, because there is something wrong about it. It does not fade, like ordinary lust. It gets temporarily worse, in fact, whenever Hawke looks at him. And Cullen knows, somehow: _This is not a natural thing. He does not want to feel it. Something is making him this way._

     How terrible to feel uncontrollable lust for a man one cannot stand! And meanwhile, Cullen apparently cannot look at this terrorist for five minutes without developing the biotic equivalent of an erection.

     He sighs, prays that one day Andraste will forgive him his sins, and resumes his watch.

     It is six hours later, nearing the end of that watch, when Cullen finally notices a strange feeling behind his right ear.

     It's not his ear; it's just in that direction. Puzzled, he glances at Hawke, but Hawke is busy staring at the wall and perhaps trying to think of Thedas. Turning toward the peculiar feeling, he finds that it is an itch that becomes stronger, growing into a faint ringing when he steps off the map con and moves in that direction. And then he stops, only a few steps from the map --

     -- at the communications station of Specialist Sabrae.

     Merrill Sabrae is one of the crew's few elves. Cullen recommended her for promotion to communications specialist himself, though it took the calling in of several favors. Officially, the Alliance does not discriminate against any of its citizens, having left behind such barbarous practices long before joining the galactic community. In practice, of course, no officer can climb the ranks without the support of the brass, and the brass are quite aware that the Chantry still does not accept elves as anything other than laity.

     But Sabrae is brilliant, if fidgety, and communications needs brilliant people. Cullen has despaired of her ever rising above communications when she knows so little of society outside the Traverse -- and lets everyone know it. Still, he likes her. And right now, she has put a hand under the console and is doing something that makes his teeth itch.

     "Specialist?" he asks.

     Merrill jumps and whirls. Her eyes are so wide and frightened that every Templar instinct Cullen possesses comes to the fore at once. _Her?_ But then, Hawke is right; Cullen has expected only to find hunted, haunted, downtrodden unregistered biotics, and that is what he's found. Real unregistereds pass for normal folk... until they cannot.

     So Cullen steps forward as he has done a hundred times, when confronting some rogue unfortunate. "Specialist," he says, with deadly quiet. "Show me your hand."

     "There's nothing," she blurts. Her eyes flick to the side; Hawke has come up behind Cullen. "Everything's fine!"

     Cullen extends his hand. The ringing in his head increases as he reaches for her. " _Your hand_ , Specialist. The one you had under the console."

     She looks guilty and horrified and tragic in her despair. Cullen tenses and cocks his omni-blade hand, because biotics usually attack when cornered like this --

     -- but _he_ is a biotic now, and the sudden shock of remembering this throws Cullen out of battle-readiness and into confusion --

     -- and finally, Sabrae sighs and bows her head. She lifts her hand. Cupped in its palm, pooling and rippling like water, is a little bit of blue-white light.

     Hawke inhales, startling Cullen further. "Holy fucking shit," he says, staring over Cullen's shoulder at Sabrae. He's so shocked that it's actually quieted the clamor of his body for the moment. "You're a haemabiotic!"

     Cullen stiffens and activates his blade. _Another_ hidden biotic, Maker's Breath, _another_ , and this one a practitioner of forbidden alien arts! She flinches at the sight of his blade, looking at him with such a hurt, _betrayed_ expression --

     -- _because to her, I am a biotic too, I am **one of them**_ \--

     -- that Cullen falters again. He should declare her under arrest in the name of the Order, but he has no right to invoke the Order. He should... he should...

     "But what were you doing?" Hawke asks, stepping forward and peering at the little puddle of blue in Sabrae's hand. "Putting that into the comm system? What for?"

     Sabrae sighs and looks at Cullen again, her small face a study in guilt. "I just... I thought we needed help, is all," she says, closing her hand and putting it behind her back and fidgeting. "If we're caught out here, like this, we're dead in the water. And... and so I thought, since all the secrets were coming out... maybe this one could, too?"

     "What?" Cullen asks.

     "What?" Hawke asks.

     And then every sensor alarm and proximity klaxon on the ship goes off, as a massive pirate vessel appears, dead ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, "haemabiotic" *is* corny, but in my defense, I'm really tired.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More positioning. I promise this story won't be just a rehash of ME2! People will get laid, I swear.

     They're led down a long corridor that's barely lit except for warm gold ceiling panels. The ceiling panels lend an oddly old-fashioned, close air to the corridor. It feels to Carver as if they're walking through the bowels of an ancient wooden sailing vessel rather than a custom-configured modern dreadnought. He can hear the dreadnought's mass effect engines idling -- and yet some part of him also expects to hear the low soughing ebb-and-flow of the ocean nearby. Weird. And maybe intentional. Regardless, it's interesting enough and Carver's tense enough that for the first time in days he's not itching to run or scream or work out or punch a wall. So he'll take it.

     Merrill is gone, escorted away by soldiers from the pirate ship before all the rest of them. She was pretty gleeful about it, even though the soldiers were bristling with a motley of armor and what looked to Carver's eye like a lot of illegal body mods -- cyber-prosthetics, skin weaves, and such. All the stuff the Chantry decries as _adultery of one's Maker-given form_. Quite a few of the pirates are aliens, too: tall, angry-looking turians, surly batarians, and Carver even spots the looming bulk of a krogan leaning against the wall of a side-corridor. Every person that Carver sees is armed to the teeth.

     Merrill's obvious delight when they came for her was the only reason Anders didn't pitch a shitfit, Carver figures. And Anders' level head is the only reason they're all still alive, because the pirate ship is _a fucking dreadnought_ in perfect working order, and Carver figures if the pirates wanted to smear the busted-arse frigate _Justice_ into a scrim of atoms, they could do so pretty easily.

     Instead, they've gotten an invitation to meet with the pirates' captain -- delivered handwritten on a paper card, no less. So here they are: Anders, Cullen because he wouldn't let the _Justice_ 's captain go ashore alone, Aveline because she wouldn't let both the captain and commander go alone, and Carver because Cullen's here.

     And when they walk through the big, laser-filigreed doors into the captain's ready room --

     The first thing Carver notices is the sun. The room is huge, circular, and its entire far wall is edge-to-edge viewscreens. The only thing viewable on those screens is the massive image of a main-sequence star well into its red giant stage, bloated and churning and seemingly no more than a few meters away. Could be any sun, from anywhere. But it's obviously meaningful to this ship's captain.

     And as the soldiers direct them to stop in the middle of the room, in front of an ornate gold-velvet récamier, they behold the captain herself.

     She's draped across the récamier facing the sun, although she turns her head and then her whole body toward them as they enter. She is as decorative as the shining fabric: a brown-skinned woman of voluptuous excess in every way. Carver doesn't know quite what to make of any part of her, from the tumble of black curls about her face -- pinned back in a way that looks both professional and artful -- to the perfect arches of her brows to the ample breasts whose curves show generously in the open V of her jacket. She's wearing the Void out of an Armali pinstriped suit with no blouse, and she's smoking an actual fucking cigarette. Carver's never seen one of those outside of period vids or old books, but there it is between her long, gold-ring-laden fingers, a little curl of white drifting up to frame her face every time she inhales.

     And she's a C5-rated anchor, too. Carver can feel that -- a faint buzz against his middle ear, very slight signal interference from another on a nearby wavelength. Her eyes lock onto him as she takes them in, one of those perfect brows arching. Carver inclines his head just a little, and adjusts his broadcast frequency to something a few bands away -- politely stepping aside so they won't brush against each other, basically. He's in her house, after all, yeah? Her lips curve in a slight smile, acknowledging his gentlemanly gesture.

     Then she looks at Cullen thoughtfully, and back at Carver. Cullen stands stiff, omni-tool hand at the ready, clearly prepared for The Worst. But for a moment Carver sees what strangers see of him: a handsome man, tall and strong and keen-eyed in his fine armor. If only he wasn't so sodding gorgeous, Carver thinks, sourly. But he is, and this time the woman's eyebrow holds a query: _Yours?_

     Shit. Carver coughs and blushes, unsure how to answer. She's a pirate, after all, and he knows how people do things out here in the gray spaces of human territory, where neither the Alliance nor the Anchorate holds any sway. The Chantry thinks of anchors as decadent hedonists, and the Anchorate does all it can to counter that perception -- but out here, sometimes, it's true.

     Cullen _isn't_ his, though, in the sense she means. So, after some shuffling from foot to foot, Carver gives her a minute shake of his head.

     Her expression turns skeptical. _Well, fuck you, then,_ Carver thinks, scowling -- and then she faces Anders and her smile returns.

     "Welcome to my ship, _the Illusive Woman_ ," she says, making a mock bow-and-flourish without ever getting up from her seat. "I'm the Captain, Isabela. You look like you're in a bit of trouble."

     Anders, who up until now has been peering at Isabela with an odd look on his face, abruptly catches his breath and beams in recognition. "I _thought_ that was you!" he says. "Back on Thedas? Northern Ferelden? The Pearl?"

     She blinks in surprise, then laughs. Her voice is low and rich and for an instant Carver thinks maybe he's in love. "Oh, it's _you_ ," she says in delight. "With the magic fingers! Oh, you were marvelous."

     "Well, thank you," Anders says, with a little proud smirk. (Meanwhile, Cullen is covering his face with one hand, and Aveline is redder than her hair. Carver's ready to hit the floor laughing his ass off at them both.) "I go by 'Anders,' now. Captain of the Systems Alliance SR-2 Frigate _Justice_ , once again at your service. These are my commander, lieutenant, and a specialist temporarily assigned to my crew, respectively." He gestures at Cullen, Aveline, and then Carver.

     "Ah, that explains a thing or two," Isabela says, eying Carver anew. "You've far too deft a touch to be out of some Alliance academy. Anchorate?"

     "Uh, right," Carver says, resisting the urge to blush and stammer like a callow boy. He's never really known how to react to praise. "I'm Carver Haw -- " But then he stops, because three of the pirates in the room have chambered rounds or thumbed off the safeties of their weapons, and they're all glaring at him.

     Isabela holds up one elegant hand, though, and the soldiers subside. "We're not all that fond of Anchorate-types around here," she says, with an unapologetic shrug. "You understand. Though I'm amused that even the Anchorate's prissiness can't seem to save you from the resonance effect. Look at you, poor boy, about to jump out of your own skin! Who's doing such a terrible job of taking care of you?"

     Shit. Cullen glances at Carver in confusion, and Carver resolutely does not look back at him. "I can take care of myself just fine, ma'am," he says.

     She laughs, tilting her head back to expose the long tendons of her throat and an elaborate jeweled collar that's three parts ostentation and one part glorious bondage. "Ma'am! Oh, my. Well, take care 'round here, little anchor. We've got a lot of strapping biotics roaming about, and you're such a _cute_ puppy. If you're not careful, we might just seduce you away to the pirate life."

     It's directed at both Carver and Cullen; Carver grimaces. But Cullen -- damn it -- gets even stiffer, though Carver didn't think that was possible. And then he starts _glowing,_ fucking Maker, his biotics going from zero to full burn in half a breath, his hand clenching and the omni-tool appearing, just awaiting the flex of his hand to create a blade. The soldiers lift their guns in alarm, and Carver doesn't blame them at all, because that is _murder_ in Cullen's face, and he's going to get them all bloody _killed_ if he doesn't rein it in --

     "Commander," Anders says. It's mild, but Cullen reacts as if he's been slapped. His aura vanishes. He stares at Anders, then down at himself as if... shit. As if he didn't even realize he was on the brink of declaring one-man war on an entire sodding dreadnought.

     "Apologies, ser," he blurts to Anders. Then, to Isabela, he actually bows. "I... forgive me, madam. I don't know... what came over me."

     Over Cullen's bent back, Anders eyes Carver meaningfully, and Carver sighs and looks away.

     Isabela, meanwhile, has been watching all of them in pure, if restrained, hilarity. "Oh, but you're _perfect_ ," she says to Cullen. "A late-onset Class Five, born in the bosom of the Alliance but being wooed away by the Anchorate, torn between both? I might have to write about this." As Cullen frowns at her in confusion, she settles more onto the couch. "Still, I suppose I'll have to have my fun later; business awaits. I have a proposal for you, Captain Anders, if you're willing to hear it?"

     Anders lifts an eyebrow at her. "I'm not teaching you the electricity trick," he says, amused. "You had your chance."

     She laughs. (Aveline just shakes her head.) "I'm going to be busy, anyway, and won't have time for you, Sparklefingers; sorry. And this is about rather more than Alliance posturing and pirate politics, for once." She folds her hands. "We were at Kanisa, too, when that thing attacked you."

     Anders, all business now, narrows his eyes. "All those pirate vessels lurking in the system. Your fleet?"

     "Mine and others'," she says. "I'd called for a gathering of the pirate syndicates, and one of my colleagues proposed Kanisa as the meeting point. But there was something fishy about the whole thing. I'd been hearing rumors for a while about something happening within the clans. Some kind of new religion springing up... with this woman as its prophetess."

     She gestures, and a holo appears in midair between them. Carver stiffens. It's Bethany.

     "For this woman, pirate clans all over the Traverse have been hunting down every biotic they can find," Isabela says. "Attacking even targets that have paid us protection fees -- which, naturally, threatens everyone's ability to do business here. So I wanted to know what was the matter. And when I arrived for the meeting, other pirates pulled aside members of my crew. Tried to convince them to bring these objects on board."

     The display changes to show one of the egg-shaped devices that impaled poor Private Williams. The same devices that were all over Ostagar. Carver amps up a little at the sight of it. Habit.

     Anders sighs. "So the pirate syndicates -- _those_ syndicates, at least -- _are_ working with these aliens. But... a new religion? That sounds rather out of character."

     "Do you think?" Isabela's smile is sardonic. "And here we spent all that money on PR, too."

     Aveline steps forward. "You want an alliance," she says, an incredulous look on her face. "That's it, isn't it? You're losing colleagues to that thing, and you want it dead. But it's too powerful for you to take on, alone." She lifts her chin. "You need us."

     Isabela stares at her, then laughs. "Um, _no_ , but nice try, big girl." Aveline's jaw tightens. "One more frigate isn't going to make much of a difference in head-to-head battle against that thing. A flanking stab, though, might just do the trick."

     She turns back to the display and waves a hand. It changes to show a mass relay -- but instead of the usual blue-white glow at its core that Carver's used to seeing, this one glimmers a sullen crimson-orange.

     "You're mad," Anders says suddenly, his eyes wide with recognition. "The Omega-4 relay? No one's ever gone through it and lived."

     "Not yet," Isabela agrees. Then she holds up a small storage device. "That's because, until now, no one except those aliens had the IFF encryption key necessary to open a safe corridor. But while your ship was fighting that monstrosity, I snuck some people aboard. What they found was... not pleasant."

     The display changes again. There, in horrific holographic detail, is a pile of mangled human corpses.

     Carver stares at it, feeling his gorge rise. And then Cullen steps forward, his fists clenching again. The pirates track him, guns at the ready, but Isabela's watching him close. "Those are citizens of Kanisa," Cullen murmurs, in horror. "Some of the ones who -- " He shudders. "The scout ship that escaped us took twenty-five colonists. I... memorized their faces, in case we raided a slave brokerage. I still hoped to save them." Then he frowns. "But the pirates kidnapped them for sale. If some of the people they took are now in that pile, dead, they're worth nothing. Why would they -- you -- do this?"

     " _My_ people don't deal in slaves," Isabela says, firmly. "I won't have it on my ship, and I try not to do business with pirate captains who do." She sighs and nods back at the image. "In any case... there were _many_ piles like this. Hundreds of people. And dozens more who were still alive, but... trapped." The display changes again, this time showing footage from a camera panning around a vast chamber. There's signal interference or something, hard to make out, but Carver sees strange pod-devices -- like escape pods, but weirdly organic -- lined up along sloping, slumping walls. There are dozens of them, as Isabela said. Clustered together, they look weirdly like some kind of eggs.

     "We were there for the IFF," Isabela continues, as they stare. "My people got what they came for and got out. Conveniently, though, we also learned quite a bit about how the aliens have been recruiting people to their cause. We're calling it, 'indoctrination.' Long-term exposure to these creatures results in a complete rewiring of neuroelectric patterns, endocrine response, even DNA. You think what they want you to think. You worship them -- and they own you." Isabela lets out a long sigh, and the display changes again. "Inconveniently, we figured this out the hard way."

     On the screen is a camera feed from a small cell. Three people are in it. One rocks back and forth, muttering; he's in restraints. One stands facing a wall, motionless. The third, an asari, paces restlessly. When the camera zooms in on her, she whips around to face it and hurries close to the lens. "Who's that spying on me, now?" she asks. "I know you're watching me, Isabela. Let me out."

     She has no eyes. Carver's mouth falls open as he understands just what he's seeing. Her eyes are gone, and the flesh above and below her flaccid eyelids has been scored with welts and scratches, as if --

     _As if she did that to **herself**._

     The asari smiles, all "aw-shucks" charm. Eyeless charm. "'Bela, please, let me out. I promise you won't regret it -- "

     Isabela cuts the feed, then turns to them. "That was my second-in-command," she says, softly now. "We caught her trying to blow up the mass effect core. During questioning, she did that. Ripped her own eyes out because, and I quote, 'Maybe now I'll hear the song better!'"

     They have all been stunned to silence. Cullen stirs first. "Song?"

     Isabela shakes her head. "My scientists think it's how these 'indoctrinated' people perceive the signal," she says. "A beautiful song that they just have to listen to. And when they do, it takes them over. Remakes them into crazed, fawning slaves who will do whatever these aliens want them to do."

     _Like Bethany_ , Carver hears. Sees, again, that moment in the shuttle bay. She'd looked right through Carver, as if she hadn't known him. Could alien mind control shit actually _do_ that? Rip through her mind, even erase her memories of her twin -- Shuddering, Carver clenches his fists. _No. Bethany's strong. No sodding aliens are going to take over her mind!_

     Cullen glances over at him, a troubled frown on his brow.

     Anders has folded his arms, contemplating this. "The dead people -- did your team scan the bodies? Were any of them biotics?"

     Isabela raises her eyebrows, then calls up a report on her omni-tool. "No."

     "Then those might still be alive, at least." He turns to Cullen.

     Cullen straightens a little, heartened -- but then he frowns. "Alive, but being... indoctrinated."

     Isabela nods. "Or worse. Who knows, really."

     "Maker keep them," Cullen murmurs.

     Anders sighs too, then folds his arms. "What's your proposal, then, 'Bela? If you've scanned us, you know the truth: we have no communications, and no stabilizer." Carver doesn't know what a stabilizer is, but he can tell that its loss is bad, because Cullen's expression turns tragic. "We can't even call for help because we're too far from the comm buoys. So I don't see how we're worth much to you right now."

     "Everything is valuable, dear." Isabela sits up, leaning forward, and then lays out her plan.

     It's simple, really. 'Bela and her fleet -- something like half the pirate vessels of the Traverse, Maker she's a bloody _syndicate boss_ \-- mean to hit the weird alien dreadnought. But this is a distraction, Isabela points out. The real attack will be on the aliens' home base, beyond the Omega 4 relay. That, Isabela has decided, will be carried out by the _Justice_ , using its stealth drive and the stolen IFF key.

     "We'll repair your stabilizer," she explains, as they all stand there gape-mouthed. "That dreadnought cut through your ship's armor like butter; we'll give you better armor. Upgrade your engines, your main canon, everything. By the end of it, your ship might not be recognizable as a Systems Alliance vessel anymore. _But_ the _Justice_ will be powerful enough to survive another encounter with these creatures."

     Anders sighs and says, "What's the catch? Because I know there's more to it than this."

     Isabela grins. "The catch is this: Until this mission is complete, I need you to stay AWOL with the Alliance. No communication, even once you're back in range of the comm network. No reporting-in. I want them to think you're MIA or dead. That way you're _mine_ , until these beasts are dead." She gets up and begins to pace, her half-forgotten cigarette trailing smoke as she does. "I want them to pay for what they've done to me and mine. And if I have to use the likes of you to accomplish that, then so be it."

     Anders falls silent, pondering his options. Cullen frowns at him, then warily regards Isabela. "Surely with Alliance aid, the chances of success -- "

     "No Alliance." Isabela glares him silent. "The more I understand this indoctrination business, the more worried it has me. I'm actually getting _wrinkles_ from worrying. It's awful!" She gestures to the ceiling, flinging ash everywhere. "These aliens didn't just spring forth from the sea foam. I've heard rumors of them from the other races. The turians call the insect-creatures, the ones that can fly, Collectors, because they appear now and again to ask for strange things. Like twenty-two sets of batarian twins with blue eyes. Seventeen asari children with a rare genetic abnormality." She shakes her head. "They've had contact with people all over the galaxy, d'you see? _And with enough contact, they can take over your mind_."

     Cullen flinches. Carver does to, as he finally gets it. "Fuck," Carver says. "You think the Alliance is compromised. With -- what, with sleeper agents or something?"

     "It's what I would do," Isabela concludes, returning to her récamier. She sits relaxed, legs gracefully crossed, but Carver notes how her toe keeps tapping restlessly in the air. "If I planned to conquer, or at least badly damage, galactic society, I would put indoctrinated people in key positions in the military -- and in critical institutions."

     She eyes Carver, and all of a sudden he realizes what she means.

     "Th-the Anchorate's not critical," Carver blurts. He's shaking his head, because he doesn't want to believe it. "We just help biotics, for the Maker's sake!"

     Isabela shakes her head and sighs. "There are those who believe humanity's got the strength and savvy to become the next Council species -- but only if we grow up, fast. A big part of growing up is finally shedding ourselves of the Chantry, and its medieval notions."

     Predictably, Cullen glowers at her. "We will never give up our faith."

     She eyes him, skeptically, and Carver has the impression that her opinion of Cullen has just dropped significantly. "A good Andrastean boy," she says. "Well, Andrastean Boy, note that I said nothing about _faith_. Believe whatever you want to believe, about the Maker or the Man in the Moon for all I care. But the Chantry isn't concerned about faith; it's concerned about power, and how to maintain the stranglehold it's had on humanity since, oh, the Exalted Age. Their influence is why we've got such poor relations with the other galactic races -- because exposure to new ideas is a threat to the Chantry. The Anchorate is only one of several organizations fighting back against this, but the Anchorate's been particularly effective at it."

     "And," Aveline says, "the Anchorate has been doing a bloody good job of spying throughout the galaxy."

     Everyone stares at her. "Come off it." Carver laughs. " _Me?_ A sodding spy?"

     Aveline winces in agreement, but persists. "You might not be, but a good number of your comrades are, Specialist Hawke, and you know it. The Anchorate knew about the targeting of biotics before anyone else. How? They were _watching_."

     "For fucking biotics!" Carver starts pacing.

     "Sure. But that means watching every human city, every human colony, every ship. Doing data aggregation and analysis on a massive scale." Carver shakes his head, not wanting to hear it, but Aveline's not having that. She pushes on. "And anchors go everywhere, because they're needed everywhere that biotics exist. Even the Chantry employs them, in those Templar camps, though all they do there is keep biotics suppressed."

     "Those are not Anchorate anchors, however," Cullen blurts.

     "None of them?" Isabela's stubbed out the old cigarette. She lights a new one now, watching Cullen over the matchflame. "Sure about that, are you?"

     As Cullen freezes in consternation, Carver shakes his head again. "Right, fine, we make reports, and the Anchorate collects data, but that doesn't make us spies -- "

     Except. Carver stumbles to a halt. Except... _the Iron Bull's_ been working with the Anchorate, on behalf of the Qunari Ben Hassrath. Because the Qunari love working through other species rather than sending their own into danger. _Well, time to go put the bas to good use_ , Bull always jokes when he's signing off, and yet the Bull's jokes often have more than a grain of truth in them --

     Isabela's watching him, and grinning. Carver turns away from her.

     "Fine," Anders says. "I agree to your terms."

     Cullen and Aveline both blurt, "Ser!" at the same time. But Anders turns to face them. "You want to rescue the survivors of Kanisa," he says to Cullen. "Even though they're biotics?"

     Cullen draws back, blinking as if this thought has not occurred to him -- but after a moment, he nods.

     "So do I," Anders says. Then he eyes Aveline. "And you want us to survive doing it, don't you? I think that's a fine and worthy goal in and of itself, mind." Now Aveline sighs and nods too.

     And then he turns to Carver. "And you want to find your sister." Carver can't do anything but nod.

     Anders folds his arms. "And do you all agree that accomplishing these goals is worth any cost?" He waits, deliberately, for their nods -- but it's a foregone conclusion by that point. They all know it. Anders is just making them buy in. "Then there's only one way we can do all of that."

     Isabela smiles. "Well, then. Welcome to the Cerberus Syndicate."


	12. Chapter 12

     _Barely over a week ago,_ Cullen thinks, _I was a Templar. I knew my place in the Maker's scheme. I was_ \--

     He has to stop this thought, because he almost inserts the word "happy." _Content_ , he amends. Yes. That is... better.

     And now he is a biotic. He is a craven, deceiving spy -- and though it is for Meredith, this rankles further, because once he was her right hand. He is a _pirate_. And while he gave up on happiness after Kinloch, lately he has begun to wonder if he will ever be able to manage even just contentment again.

     Isabela is generous in her possessiveness, insisting that Anders and all his officers remain as guests on her vessel for the evening. It seems an unnecessary gesture, if she means to remind them that she holds all the power at the moment; that is evident enough whenever they glance through a port to see the _Justice_ being towed behind _the Illusive Woman_. But as they are led to the "guest wing," as Isabela called it, it becomes clear that she really does mean to treat them as guests, and honored ones at that. There's an entire banquet chamber here, complete with a heavily-laden table: dishes, breads, and fruits from a dozen different planets. There's even a whole roasted... something, which Cullen cannot bear to look at for long because it is too-obviously the product of a wholly different evolutionary pathway from those of Thedas. (It has spikes for legs. Maker, no.) Dextro-chirality foods are in the red bowls and platters, one of the pirates politely informs them, and the liquor in the blue carafes is simultaneously low-salt, vegan, kosher, halal, siarist, keelahn, radiation-free, and alcohol-free.

     "Should we eat this?" Aveline asks in a low voice, as they stand taking in the spread. There's even an ice scuplture -- of _Merrill_ , Cullen realizes, as he stares at it. (She's nude and artfully posed. It's lovely, but he blushes and must look away for the sake of appropriate professionalism.)

     "I don't see why not," Anders says, cheerfully. "She has no reason to kill us."

     "And no reason not to feed us nanomachines that will build a control chip in our brains," Aveline growls.

     "Oh, are those a thing? Well, I suppose that would be a good reason."

     "There's also the danger of, uh," Hawke begins, and then he rubs the back of his neck, shuffles, seems to forget what he's going to say, then sighs and focuses. "Surveillance. If I was a bloody pirate, I'd build microphones and cameras right into the walls of this place."

     "Hmm, right." Anders lifts his omni-tool and scans the room. " _Justice_?"

     "You won't be able to get a signal," Cullen warns -- but then Anders' comm crackles on a band they can all hear.

     "I detect no cameras, listening devices, or biometric monitors," says the _Justice_ VI. "There is a suite next door which contains a great deal of surveillance equipment, precisely as Specialist Hawke suggests. This one, however, is clear."

     "Oh, of course," Anders says, pleased. "A suite for guests she likes, and a suite for guests she doesn't trust any farther than she can throw."

     "Charming," drawls Aveline.

     "Ser, the _Justice_ has no sensors here; you cannot trust that scanner analysis," Cullen presses. Anders trusts the ship's VI too much, he has felt for some time.

     "Special patch," Anders replies absently, leaning down to peer into a dish of small black gelid things. "Custom hack I did to connect it to my omni-tool, some time back."

     This flusters Cullen into silence; Anders has hacking skills? Then again, he _is_ an infiltrator. And also, apparently, an ex-prostitute; Cullen would never patronize such a place himself, but even he has heard of _the Pearl_. Clearly Cullen has never truly known his captain, and Anders' biotics are the least of it.

     "Yeah, well, fuck it, then," Hawke says, finally going over to the table. He starts to fill a plate. Everyone stares, but Cullen can tell that whatever kept Hawke focused through the conversation with Isabela -- probably Isabela herself -- has faded. Once again he is tormented by his excessive restlessness and tension, though the food seems to help. After he's sat and shoveled a few forkfulls down, Aveline and Cullen and Anders look at each other, then shrug and sit down to table as well.

     The food is excellent, if unnervingly exotic. (Cullen rather likes the... blue things.) And they are all tense enough, hungry enough, tired enough, that they eat in relative silence, and quickly. The banquet hall is surrounded by doors which lead to bedrooms, as one of the pirates points out; they may sleep in whichever one they choose. Another door leads to the baths and toilets. There are robes in the rooms, and molecular cleaning drawers for their bodysuits and armor.

     Near the end of the meal, Isabela swans in, taking a chair at the opposite end of the long table from Anders -- making herself the head of the table, or perhaps just reminding Anders that he must share leadership for this mission. She nibbles fruit and verbally spars with them a bit more for a while, but Cullen has the feeling she's not especially interested in conversation. Why, then, is she here?

     He isn't the only one irritated by her presence. Abruptly Carver throws down his fork and glares at her. "What?"

     "What, what?" Isabela asks, with entirely too innocent a look.

     "What do you _want_?" Carver pushes to his feet. His hands are planted on the table, but abruptly Cullen notices that he's shaking. Alarmed, Cullen sits straighter; is he ill? "What game are you playing? I know you're Merrill's; I can feel the air quivering from here. Why aren't you off having her, then?"

     _Having_ her? Cullen frowns. He is aware that Isabela must have been Merrill's anchor at some point, and that they are obviously still quite close. Lovers, though? It does not suit either, he thinks: Isabela is a sophisticated, powerful pirate queen, and Merrill is... Merrill. But Isabela grins now, watching Carver like a -- well. Closely.

     "Oh, Merrill and I will reestablish our acquaintanceship shortly, never fear," Isabela says. The smirk on her lips leaves little to the imagination. "You, though, poor boy, look ready to drop. Maybe you could do with a bit more, hmm, _quivering_ , yourself?"

     "Isabela," Anders says. He smiles, but his tone is warning. "The situation is complicated."

     "It always is, between anchors and biotics! But the resonance does not lie." She shrugs and spreads her hands. Carver abruptly makes a disgusted noise and shoves away from the table.

     He's clumsy about it, though, or tired, or both, and because of this he stumbles over the legs of the chair. Not enough to fall -- but something is so obviously wrong with him that Cullen forgets himself. He half rises, frowning, and grabs Hawke's arm to help him right himself.

     It's the same as the other times. Cullen doesn't even think about it, certainly does not intend it, but all at once he is suffused with the crawling blue light of his own biotics. And this time, the amorphous sheath of it has stretched all the way up Hawke's arm and halfway down his back. He doesn't notice, at first. "You're not well, Hawke, for the Maker's sake. Perhaps you should -- "

     Hawke flinches violently, eyes widening. He jerks away -- and Cullen's biotics _follow_ , stretching between them to cling to Hawke, and not breaking. Cullen has only an instant to register what's happening -- Maker's _Teeth_ , not again -- before Hawke's expression shifts from alarmed to furious. There is that strange crackle that Cullen knows is Hawke's implant "amping up," as he puts it, and suddenly the anchor link between them heaves and shoves Cullen away so hard that his biotics snap and his aura vanishes and _he_ is the one who stumbles and falls to the floor. When he recovers enough to look up, he finds Hawke standing over him with fists clenched, so furious that his lips have drawn back from his teeth. Worse, Cullen can _feel_ Hawke's fury, heavy and burning and pulse-pounding at the core of him.

     What he cannot fathom is _why_ Hawke is so angry. And... afraid?

     "Don't touch me," Hawke snarls. "Don't you ever fucking touch me again!"

     Cullen stares up at him, so utterly flummoxed that he cannot think. But the link between them is intact, to Cullen's surprise; even in his fury, Hawke has not abandoned him. It feels stronger, in fact, than it did before -- steady now, where it had occasionally wavered or attenuated. What does that mean?

     Nothing. All at once, Cullen feels himself grow weary of biotic business and anchor business and galactic politics and everything else.

     So Cullen gets to his feet, brushing himself off more in disgust than disarray. "My apologies," he snaps at Hawke. It comes out sounding snide rather than sincere, but he no longer cares. "I did not mean to trespass, and I promise that I shall endeavor not to do it again. _Ever_."

     Hawke stares at him. It is a momentary vindication for Cullen that he feels the beat of Hawke's anger falter into shame... But then all at once Hawke steps back, wrapping arms around himself and shuddering. He looks away -- but Cullen knows the instant it strikes how powerfully he now _wants_ Cullen, in the most carnal fashion imaginable. "Fuck," he whispers. Hawke is shaking again, Cullen realizes in some consternation; sweat beads his forehead. The want is too powerful to count as mere desire; it is a _demand_ , and Hawke aches with it, needing, helpless in his desperation --

     And for a moment, even through his anger, Cullen thinks, _Let me help you!_

     But he cannot bring himself to say it aloud.

     Then Anders steps around the table. He moves briskly, his face set and serious. When he stops in front of Hawke, holding up his open hands, he glimmers again with that odd biotic aura of his -- crackling electric white instead of the seething fiery blue that Cullen has seen of himself and other biotics. "Hawke," he says. It's gentle, full of kindness, encouraging.

     And it's wrong. Cullen shudders all over, reaching out to grip the nearest chair-back so that he won't... what? Run at Anders swinging? Leap past Anders and offer his own hands, his own biotics, instead? Why?

     _Because Hawke is mine, because I should be the one..._

     The one doing what?

     Hawke grabs for Anders' hands -- quickly, desperately, like a drowning victim. When he staggers close, however, Anders sighs and wraps an arm and an aura around him. All that white-lightning energy surrounds Hawke completely, head to toe. With a groan of relief, Hawke sags against him, resting his head on Anders' shoulder. But he is still tense -- this time with anticipation.

     Well. It's pretty bloody obvious what Anders has offered him, and what he has accepted.

     Then Cullen realizes Anders is watching him, with an expression so neutral that it can only conceal wariness. Only then does Cullen realize that his own aura has returned, even though his nerves still sting with Hawke's rebuke. Once again, Cullen's biotics have a will of their own -- and Cullen is sick to death of it.

     So he decides, firmly, _Leave Hawke to his alien indulgences_. Then he forces himself to take a deep breath and step back. He tries to tamp down the completely irrational rage that he feels, and he tries for the umpteenth time to stop picking up on Hawke's emotions. He fails on that last, and is surprised and bitterly amused to sense that Hawke, too, is sick of being yanked about by fate -- but the first part works, somewhat. Cullen is able to nod to Anders, even if it is jerky and graceless, and for once, his biotics settle into quiescence when he wills them.

     Anders raises his eyebrows, then inclines his head back to Cullen in a wry sort of way. Then he murmurs to Hawke, and glances around at the table. Aveline's staring at them all in utter confusion, one hand on her still-holstered heavy pistol. Isabela, though, is smirking. She's got one leg already dangling over an arm of her chair; now she props her chin on her fist. All that's missing is a bowl of popcorn for her to nibble from as she watches the little tableau play out.

     "Pardon us," Anders says, particularly to her. "We've got a bit of business to take care of. You understand."

     "Of course," Isabela says, throwing him a careless wave: _go on, go on_. "You're guests here; let me know if I can provide anything to, ah, ease your comforts." Her eyebrow waggle is really rather childish, Cullen thinks in irritation. "But while you're busy, I think I'll explain a few things to your commander, lest he yield to the urge to do something foolish. I'm not interested in having my ship damaged."

     "I would never," Cullen says, irritated.

     Anders smiles at him, and this time it's kindly. "I believe you, Cullen. And later... let's talk as well. I'll tell you whatever you need to know." His voice grows edged; he eyes Hawke. "Hawke will, too."

     "Fuck off," Hawke mumbles, muffled by Anders' shoulder.

     "He deserves to know, Hawke. Really, you should have told him before now."

     Hawke groans in frustration. "Fine. Later." He pulls away from Anders sharply and turns to head for one of the rooms. Anders' aura slips off him, and he turns at once, glowering. "Let's _go_."

     Anders throws Cullen a wry, _a Captain's work is never done_ final glance, then follows Hawke into a room. They close the door, and Cullen prays the rooms are thoroughly soundproofed. Not that it will make much of a difference, when he can feel how Hawke's abrasiveness dissolves the instant the door is closed, and desperation takes over. He needs. He _needs_ ; it is a thing that burns in him, like a fever --

     Cullen wrenches his thoughts away, and forces himself to focus on Isabela. "Madam," he says, with as much dignity as he can muster.

     Isabela's eyes have narrowed, and she regards him thoughtfully. Then she sighs at Aveline. "Forgive me, my dear, but may I ask that you give us some privacy?"

     Aveline scowls at once. "If it concerns the security of my ship -- "

     "It concerns sex," Isabela interrupts. "Oral, anal, frottage, and perhaps a bit of cuddling. I'm even going to suggest positions -- "

     "Oh, Maker's Eye, enough." Aveline sighs and looks from Isabela to Cullen, then gets up. "If we get through this, ser, I'm applying for a transfer. Thought you should know."

     Cullen sighs. "If we get through this, Aveline, I will approve it with my most enthusiastic blessing, before quickly following you into the Void."

     She laughs once, and grips his shoulder as she passes; he's grateful for her support. Then she is gone into one of the rooms -- pointedly as far from the one Hawke and Anders have taken as possible, and pointedly closing the door. Save for the guards, now Cullen and Captain Isabela are alone.

     "Merrill tells me you are a man of faith," Isabela begins, to his surprise. She shifts her own position, now putting her prettily-booted feet up on the table and crossing them. Cullen cannot bring himself to feel any censure for her behavior. But her wording troubles him.

     "I am -- was -- a Templar, madam," he says, drawing himself up as much as he is able. "My faith was my sword and shield, but I was proud to stand in Andraste's name on the battlefield as well."

     Isabela winces, and Cullen hears the guards stir a little. One of them curses. Isabela eyes the woman to silence, but it's clear to Cullen already: there is no love for Templars among these pirates.

     "Well, you're in the soup now," she confirms, reading his face and smiling. She always smiles. "Probably for the best that you and your crew are returning to the _Justice_ in the morning. Until then, watch your back."

     Cullen shifts uncomfortably, glancing around at the guards. Yes, several are glaring at him. He chooses the largest of them and meets the man's eye. "I will answer any calling-out, for those who have grievances," he says pointedly, then faces Isabela again. "But to my knowledge, Templars have never targeted pirates. We defend our facilities against attack, but surely -- "

     Isabela shakes her head and sighs. "Tell me, Commander. You should be able to sense it, by now. How many biotics are there, amongst my crew?"

     And Cullen blinks, as he thinks of it... and all at once the knowledge prickles on the edges of his perception. His biotics again, a new sixth sense as Hawke called it --

     Hawke, who is half frantic right now with _something_ that Anders is doing to him --

     Cullen shakes his head sharply. "Seven... no." He stares at Isabela. "Ten. There are _ten_." In the Alliance, registered biotics are assigned to dreadnoughts and cruisers. Never more than three per ship, given their rarity. Isabela's dreadnought carries ten.

     "Biotics often come to us while fleeing the Templars, you see. There aren't many other places they can find work and acceptance in human space. And quite a few of us become anchors, correspondingly." She taps the crown of her head and winks. "Twenty or thirty, last count."

     Cullen tries to understand this and cannot. "It must be comforting to have so many who can control your biotics," he says. "Safer for your ship as well, I imagine?"

     Isabela raises her eyebrows. "Oh, you are _such_ a Templar. No wonder he doesn't want you. A shame, too, since you so obviously want him."

     It is a double-blow of things that are almost unbearable individually, and incomprehensible together. _I do **not** want him_ , he means to protest at once, but he is silenced by the thought that follows it, and shocked that it actually bothers him. _He does not want me?_

     What is he to do with such a contradiction?

     As Cullen sits there, trying not to visibly react, Isabela shakes her head. "Maker. You poor thing. All that Templar-ish 'standing against wickedness!' But your biotics don't obey just your conscious mind, Commander. They will reach even for what you don't _admit_ to wanting." Then she leans forward, propping her bosom and elbows on the table. "He _is_ a rather handsome thing, though, isn't he? Finely made and strapping. Comfortable with himself. You can always spot the ones who had to work at it, but once they get there -- " She sighs pleasurably and draws her tongue over her lips. "That's the kind of fellow who'll lay down his life for you, if he thinks you're worth it. Hard not to admire that kind of strength. Might've even made a good Templar, hmm?"

     "He is -- " Cullen starts to blurt. His automatic response; _He is a terrorist._ And yet. Has Cullen not thought, himself, that Hawke would be admirable if not for the Anchorate? And as for the rest of Isabela's observations... Cullen flushes, then hates that he has done so.

     "Nevertheless," he says, doggedly. "Everything in him is opposed to everything in me. There can be... We are... civil. But there is no _possibility_ of anything more."

     "No possibility?" Isabela's smile is wry. "It's certainly _awkward_ to both hate and desire a man at the same time, Commander, but I assure you, you don't need compatible politics for some things. Especially since, in this case, a degree of _necessity_ is involved."

     "What?"

     Isabela jerks her head back toward Anders' room. "You do realize your captain isn't going to be enough for him? Oh, Sparklefingers will do what he can -- and that's quite a lot. It will help. But what he really needs is _you_."

     In the bedroom, Anders is doing something that makes Hawke exult. (At last, at last, he's been waiting so long for someone to just bloody _touch_ him -- )

     Cullen makes a sound of frustration and forces himself to concentrate on the here and now.

     "He does not care for me, as you have seen," he says to Isabela. "This compulsion that he displays is precisely why Templars restrain biotics. The dangers of alien influence on the unprepared are -- "

     She rolls her eyes so hard that he nearly hears them. "Aliens don't have these problems," she retorts. "Asari don't need anchors -- and when they want someone, if that person is attracted in turn, they simply have sex and get the itch scratched, so to speak. In batarians, turians, quarians, and the other species that need anchors, _this_ doesn't happen." She gestures vaguely at Cullen. "It's rare even among humans, but the Anchorate has special rules for dealing with the matter, so I suppose it must happen enough. Hawke should have told you."

     Cullen sets his jaw. "I will dispute you, madam, on this not being a thing of aliens. I have... endured those who seemed driven by... unnatural compulsions." And he cannot speak of this. Not here, not to her. He gets up and begins to pace his side of the table. "Biotics are the root of this evil."

     "Well, yes," Isabela says. She speaks lightly, but Cullen can feel how closely she watches him. _She knows_ , he thinks, and he cannot bear it. He clenches his fists and does not meet her eyes as he paces. "Specifically _your_ biotics. You're the one that did this to Hawke, after all."

     Cullen stops, horrified. "I? How have I done this?"

     "Maker, did he teach you anything?" Isabela shakes her head. "You did it by chance. The whims of the Maker, the machinations of demons, whatever you want to believe. But every biotic operates at a certain range of frequencies. It's as unique as the voice. Every anchor, too, has a certain range that is innate. It's _how_ we do what we do -- like learning to sing. And when an anchor and a biotic who are near to one another in range work together..." She spreads her hands, grins. "Harmony."

     Cullen blinks in confusion. It is far too lovely a metaphor for the awful thing that has been driving Hawke to exhaust himself with exercise. Thankfully Isabela elaborates. "The asari call it resonance. If you've used your biotics in battle, you already know what it is."

     Cullen remembers moving with Hawke, being of one mind and will as they faced row upon row of foul alien enemies, calling down the Maker's wrath and feeling Hawke exult with him -- "Resonance."

     She nods. "But sometimes resonance continues even outside of battle. It can happen anywhere. At a dinner table, perhaps, when you're just trying to stop your anchor from falling over."

     Cullen inhales. Every time his biotics have reached for Hawke unbidden. The first time, Hawke was calm about it... but then, that was their first lesson, and Cullen had been so angry and afraid that he'd badly needed Hawke's calm. Would Hawke have known what was happening, then?

     Yes. Because Hawke had immediately pushed Cullen's biotics away.

     "You're saying Hawke and I have this... resonance," he says, lip curling. "Explain how it compels -- " _me to touch him, to be jealous of him, to know when he is in pain and to ache with him until he is soothed_ " -- his behavior."

     "It isn't really a compulsion. It's probably driving him half mad, but it will do him no lasting harm. It's just that, for anchors, when the resonance gets strong enough, we... get used to it." She tilts her head back, thinking. "Imagine if you suddenly lost half your eyesight. Or hearing. Or your ability to taste or feel. Suddenly you're walking around blind, numb, in a fog, when just yesterday you were whole. Only it's more than that." She shivers a little, sighs, and smiles -- pleasurably, Cullen realizes. As if this horrifying thing she's talking about is... not horrifying. "I suppose it's a bit like an addiction -- "

     Cullen flinches before he can stop himself. Isabela glances up at him, and for once he can tell what she's thinking. Yes; he is an ex-Templar. He knows something about addiction. But to his surprise, she then shakes her head and frowns. "Hmm. Poor word-choice." She sits forward. "Because of the resonance, Hawke is _understimulated_. His nerves have begun firing faster, his skin is more sensitive. His metabolism runs hotter. Understand?"

     Hawke did say something about the metabolism of biotics... "He has changed to match me?"

     She tilts her head at him, like a schoolmistress commending a pupil who's finally figured out a complicated lesson. "He's _resonating with you_ , yes. In battle, that makes the two of you utterly deadly, because the resonance amplifies your strength. You're more powerful than another Class Five might be, because of him. But outside of battle..." She glances over at Anders' room.

     Cullen grimaces. " _That_ I do not understand."

     "Well. When two consenting adults fancy each other very much -- "

     Cullen makes a sound of annoyance and turns away, pacing again; she laughs in delight. "Oh, sweet thing, listen. Sex is simply the easiest way to relieve the understimulation."

     "There must be alternatives that are not so... demeaning." Hawke doing pull-ups. "Exercise?"

     "Yes, that helps, but sex is exercise, too. What's demeaning about it, when it's when both people want? And sex offers what exercise cannot: the complete satisfaction of understimulated senses. The scents of another person, sweat, pleasure. The weight of other hands on skin." Isabela half-shuts her eyes, plainly savoring a memory. "The taste of another in your mouth. The sounds of movement, and sighs, and pleas for more..."

     All of which Anders is now offering Hawke, Cullen thinks. And again Cullen must push back the conviction that _he_ should be with Hawke in that room.

     "What stops it?" he demands, to distract himself. " _Apart from_ sex. There must be something, surely."

     She shakes her head at him. Cullen cannot tell whether this is disapproval of his prudishness, or a commentary on his nonexistent sense of humor. "Breaking the link stops the resonance. But Hawke can't do that with you, given that you've been a biotic all of... how long?"

     It feels like forever. "Not quite two weeks."

     She blinks in surprise. "Oh. No, he's stuck with you, then, unless he means to sever the link. Thankfully, he doesn't seem willing to do that."

     Cullen shudders at the memory of those moments when all his senses rebelled against him. "No."

     But now Isabela regards him thoughtfully. "It occurs to me," she says, "that you could always find another anchor. Someone, hmm, less compatible."

     "But there are no others -- " On the _Justice_. But Isabela has said that anchors and biotics are both more common here, where neither law nor faith rules. And Isabela herself is another powerful anchor; he cannot sense her as he can Hawke, but perhaps it is instinct that he thinks so. "Are you... offering, madam?"

     She blinks, and then laughs at him. It isn't cruel, but Cullen stands stiff regardless, uncomfortable with her rejection. When she's done laughing, she gets up and stalks over to him. _Stalks_ is the word that comes to mind, because there is something so aggressively sexual in her manner that he steps back at once, instinctively retreating from a battle he has no skill to fight. She keeps coming, however, moving into his personal space before she stops and lays a hand on his chest. He twitches beneath her touch, struck with a sudden, intense urge to slap her hand away. Only propriety and his awareness of the room's armed guards stay his hand.

     "You're a lovely, big fellow," Isabela says, patting his chest, "and I have half a mind to put you through your paces. But you aren't ready for me, Commander. I'm not Hawke, willing to deprive myself out of pride. I _like_ the resonance, you see."

     "Why would you -- " Cullen steps back again. Never mind that she will see it as fleeing; her touch _bothers_ him in a way that is rapidly pushing him to react. "Please don't -- "

     Isabela leans closer; Cullen's fists clench. "And in any case, Hawke is the one you really want."

     Cullen freezes. "Madam. He is _not_."

     "Oh? But you don't keep threatening your captain over _me_."

     What? "I have never -- "

     "Lit up like the Illium skyline the moment he offered to help Hawke," she teases, drawing one fingertip along his collarbone, where his bodysuit sits above the armor. "Almost full burn, too. Wanted to kill him, didn't you? And I'll bet it's not the first time."

     Cullen tries to shake his head in denial, but it is too much of a lie. He can only stand there. But mercifully, after she chuckles at his discomfiture, she lets him go and steps away.

     "Anders is competition," Isabela explains while Cullen breathes harder in her wake. "Even if you're too good of an officer and a gentleman to admit it, _some_ part of you knows that Hawke would rather be with him than you."

     "That is absurd," Cullen snaps. "If Hawke wants Anders for a lover, they may _have_ each other."

     She stops and eyes him for a moment, and for the first time he senses disapproval in her manner. "You Alliance types," she says. "You _Chantry_ types. I forget that none of you have proper manners. To you, all of this is just about... weaponry. And 'alien influence.'" She makes air quotes with her fingers and snorts with a bitter air. "You barely see the _people_ involved."

     "I -- What?"

     She sighs and shakes her head, then resumes walking away, pausing to pluck a grape as she passes the table again. "Poor Hawke," she says, examining the grape thoughtfully before popping it into her mouth. "All that he must have gone through to become an anchor of his caliber. Years' worth of skill developed and applied. Traveling at a moment's notice to help people like you. Giving up the chance to reunite with his sister, _for you_. And you don't even care how he suffers."

     _I do care!_ Cullen thinks, but... does not say.

     She shakes her head again, pitying. "But if you really don't want him, then all right. I'll ask around here. See if I can drum up any other C5-level anchors for you."

     Cullen does not trust her at all. But: "Why would you do that for me?"

     "It would be for him, sweet thing. Hawke is the one who has the worst of this, after all." Cullen flushes, because this has not occurred to him before now. "And it's for the mission -- because a biotic and anchor who truly despise each other can be as dangerous as a healthy pairing is strong."

     Cullen frowns at this, too, feeling an odd, intense urge to deny what she's said. Does he despise Hawke? It seems too strong a word. "Hawke... has been a good anchor, though. Despite everything."

     "I'm sure he has been. He seems the stalwart type. Rather like you in that. Still, he has options, so why shouldn't you?" After grazing a bit more from the table, Isabela turns to head for the suite door. Her guards immediately peel away from the walls and move to follow. "So rest well, Commander," she calls back to Cullen. "I've my own lovely biotic to reacquaint myself with, you see, and after that a ship to fly. We'll speak again." With a jaunty wave, she's gone, and Cullen is left alone with his thoughts.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of sexual assault and torture in this chapter.

     Sitting with his knees drawn up in one of the main room's big port windows, Carver is pulled from brooding when Cullen stumbles out of his quarters. He watches while the man -- wearing only the pants half of his bodysuit, the rest of him drenched with sweat -- reaches for a flask of water on the table and then stops. There's a wine carafe beside it. After a moment he picks up the flask, pours a glass of water with a shaking hand, and guzzles it. But Carver saw that moment of indecision. For addicts, temptation is everywhere.

     Carver doesn't want to care, but he turns anyway, uncurling to let his legs dangle from the window sill. "Bad dreams?"

     Cullen jerks so violently that he spills water. He actually drops into a defensive crouch before he realizes it's just Carver and not... whatever he thought it might be. Demons, maybe. For men like Cullen, there are always demons somewhere.

     "I... yes," Cullen says, finally. His voice is hoarse. As soundproofed as these guest bedrooms are, he might've been shouting in his sleep, and no one would know. He straightens, but he's still twitchy, Carver can see. He goes back to the table, though he doesn't reach for any of the fruit or breads still there. The pirates have cleared away the rest. Cullen just stares at it, like he needs something -- anything -- to look at.

     Carver gets that. "Me, too," he says. It's why he's out here, instead of waking up poor Anders with his flailing. Anders needs his rest. "Bethany. You?" Cullen twitches, frowning a little. A long-enough moment passes that Carver sighs and adds, "You don't have to say."

     Cullen shakes his head, jerkily. "I was only thinking... that I have never spoken of it aloud. The Templars all knew. No one else ever asked."

     Carver lets out a soft, noncomittal breath of _Huh_. "Nobody asks about Bethany, either. S'not like it's a secret or anything. People just... tiptoe around it. Like they can see something's wrong, but they'd rather just pretend otherwise." Carver runs a hand through his hair. "They tried to send me to a grief counselor once. I told them she wasn't dead, so fuck off. They never suggested another, though. Could've used one." He sighs. "Sodding Alliance."

     Cullen glances at him, then focuses on the table again. After a long, taut moment, he says, "I was... taken in a slave raid, some years ago."

     Carver frowns. Okay, that's the first time Cullen's actually surprised him. Carver's met ex-slaves. Something's definitely wrong with Cullen; something's wrong with most Templars, far as Carver can tell. But Cullen doesn't act like somebody who spent years being worked over and beaten and mind-raped by a control chip.

     "There were," Cullen continues, staring at a bunch of grapes, "four of us. All from the Alliance training camp at Kinloch Station. I was a private assigned to the post. The slavers... didn't want us for the usual. Their ship was damaged; drive core leakage was contaminating the engineering and cargo decks. They had no one with the skill to repair it, but they needed loading crew. They told us... if we lasted to their next port, where they could get repairs, they would set us free."

     Oh. Fuck. "That's how you got eezo poisoning."

     Cullen nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the grapes like they're a lifeline. "Braithwaite died first. Just vomited blood and fell over, a week into it. The rest of us, though... One of the slavers was an asari. She would watch us from the crew deck, through the shielded windows. After Braithwaite died, she..." He falters, takes a deep breath. "We were permitted to leave the contaminated decks to eat and sleep. The asari would come into our quarters. E-entice us. She was beautiful, but something about her unnerved me. And I noticed that the other slavers kept their distance from her." He shakes his head a little, frowning more. "She... reminded me of a girl I knew. But there was nothing natural in that."

     Some asari can use biotics to affect the mind, Carver knows. Humans can, too, with enough practice... but this probably isn't the time to tell Cullen that.

     "Goodman..." Cullen shakes his head in belated, haunted disapproval. "She took the asari up on her offer. They embraced. There was a glow. Biotics. I know that now. And -- " He shudders; Carver wonders if he's noticed that he's breathing harder. "And Goodman... _screamed_."

     Fuck. Carver sighs. "Sounds like the asari was an ardat yakshi." The weird asari whose biotics are so powerful that they kill whenever they mate. Carver's never met one that he knows of. He remembers what the Bull said, though, during his training. _You meet one of them, don't ever try to quell her. No little implant's gonna stop that. Just run._

     Cullen laughs. It's so out of character for him that Carver frowns.

     "Yes, ardat yakshi. I had not heard of them, however, at the time. I knew only that she had murdered Goodman with biotics, somehow. She explained that Goodman's mind had been too weak for her. But _I_ , she felt certain, would be strong enough to enjoy the ultimate ecstasy with her." He inhales. Lets the breath out slowly, carefully. "She said this to both I and Hernandez, again and again. She whispered it into our dreams. We were sick with the eezo, starving because we could not keep nourishment down. She spun visions for us of freedom. Of lovers we'd yearned for but never -- never -- " He swallows audibly. "Each day we worked until we dropped. Each night she tormented us. Only prayer, focusing our minds, kept her off." He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "Then she took Hernandez. I was the only one left."

     "Maker." Carver can't think of anything to say.

     Cullen smiles a little. "I suppose the Maker was there. Somewhere."

     That's the most disturbing thing Carver's ever heard him say. Not that Carver really blames him. No atheists in foxholes, they say, but probably a shit-ton of 'em in torture chambers. Still. For _Cullen_ to doubt his faith...

     He continues. "An Alliance strike team raided the ship and killed all of the slavers. They found me amid the corpses of my companions, praying so fiercely that I did not know them, at first. Then I realized the woman leading the strike team was a biotic." His smile fades. "I... attacked her. Urged her companions to attack her, too, before she killed them all. And I repudiated the Alliance for employing such creatures."

     Carver sits back and pulls up one leg again. He's got his boxers on, though his bodysuit and armor are in the cleaner. Everything's decent. "You ran afoul of one of the worst biotic predators out there. Figures you wouldn't be rational about it, at least for a while."

     "Does it figure?" Cullen sounds weary. He rubs a hand over his hair, which is surprisingly curly. Sweat's ruined whatever he usually does to straighten it. Looks better natural. "You make my madness sound so reasonable."

     Carver shrugs a little. He's not one to talk, these days.

     Cullen says, "I was cruel to her, the woman who rescued me. I have often wondered if that is why the Maker saw fit to make me a biotic as well."

     "You know it doesn't work like that."

     "I know. Still." Cullen takes a deep breath. "They never found _her_ body. The ship was partially vented to space during the raid. I want to believe she's dead, but..." He falls silent.

     Carver leans his cheek on his knee. "So then you joined the Templars?" With fresh trauma and lingering fear in his mind, he would've been an ideal recruit for them. Fanatics like broken men.

     Cullen nods. "As soon as I was discharged. The Alliance had done as much to decontaminate me as possible, but I thought I was living on borrowed time. The Templars provided... certainty. But after a time, I began to want to return to the Alliance. I had doubts."

     Abruptly he stops, throwing a glance at Carver as if he's suddenly remembered that Carver is Anchorate, and the Templars' enemy.

     Carver smiles thinly. "And here we were getting along so well."

     Cullen sighs. But then he seems to steel himself. He turns to face Carver. "I have thought much of... of your father's motto. 'Biotics shall serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base.'" He lifts a hand to gaze at it; a muscle flexes in his jaw. "That the ship could have fallen to those creatures but for my biotics, and Anders'... I want to do what is right. I want to make the galaxy safer for humanity; that was why I joined the Templars. It is why I thought to turn myself in to a containment facility, when my training with you is done. Biotics -- we -- cannot be treated like people; we are weapons. And yet..."

     He falters and then just stands there, radiating uncertainty as he shuffles and fidgets, his hands opening and closing as if trying, and failing, to grasp answers from the air. It's weird and sort of sad to watch. Carver cannot help pitying him.

     So Carver says, "Bethany wanted to go to a Templar camp, too. So, you're not my first for that."

     This seems to floor Cullen. He frowns and then says, "You did say that you had considered joining the Templars."

     Carver nods. "If she'd done it, gone into the camp, I would've joined up. Not _just_ to protect her, but..." Who's he kidding? It would've been mostly to protect her.

     Cullen "ah"s, his expression understanding. "You would not have been permitted direct access to her, but there are many Templars who joined because of family." He regards Carver for a long moment. "I take it she did not turn herself in, however."

     Carver shakes his head. "We -- me, Bethy, and our older sister, Marian -- actually visited a camp. Bethany with a biomemetic masking script in place, of course, so they wouldn't ping on her as a biotic. Figured if she decided to do it, she should go in knowing everything, yeah? So we disguised ourselves as Chantry laypeople. Told the Templars we wanted to minister to the most wretched of the 'poor cursed biotics.' I had to let Marian do most of the talking; couldn't pull it off with a straight face." He smiles, remembering... but he can't hold the smile. "So the Templars took us to see their worst."

     Cullen goes still, then looks away. "I... know what sorts of things you might have seen."

     Carver nods. "It was the Tranquil that finally changed Bethany's mind." The Tranquil talked freely about why they'd gotten the brand. Some had volunteered for the procedure, terrified of their own biotics; others had been forced into it because they couldn't control their biotics, even with an anchor's help. That had been awful, but understandable. But some... "The ones who said they _belonged to_ one of the Templar officers."

     Cullen sighs. "Alrik. I know of him. Maker, you visited _the Gallows_. On the planet Kirkwall? I was elevated to Knight Captain there."

     "You know what this Alrik's doing, then?" Carver scowls. "And you haven't _stopped_ him?"

     "There is no longer a need. Alrik disappeared a few years ago, and his remains were found later in one of the cavern systems of the Wounded Crust -- one of the asteroids being mined in Kirkwall's system. No one mourned him." Cullen sees Carver's face, though, and lets out another sigh. "But I will admit that Alrik was far from the only corrupt Templar. I stopped them when I could, but... as I said, I had doubts."

     Carver is too weary to be angry. It's been a long week: training Cullen, bracing for pirates, fighting creepy aliens, seeing his sister again, nearly being killed by her, resonating with Cullen, fucking Anders. That last bit wasn't bad at all, but the rest has shredded all his filters. "Right. Doubts. Bet they just gave you more lyrium to shut you up."

     It's too hard a step for what has been, up to now, a delicate dance of conversation. Cullen stiffens right up, of course, which means first that they _did_ give him lyrium, the bastards -- but also that Carver has insulted him, because Cullen's _off_ the lyrium now.

     "Well," Cullen says, and it's frosty as fuck, "I'll bid you a good rest of the night, then." He turns to go, all stiffbacked... and Carver hates this. He didn't mean it that way. He's not good at tact; that was Bethany's talent. Now that he's on his own, it seems as if his words always just come out wrong.

     So this time, for once, because he _hates_ this, Carver blurts, "I'm sorry. Please. I didn't -- fuck. Cull, will you just listen?"

     For a moment Carver thinks he'll keep going. If he does, Carver will deserve it. But Cullen stops, though he doesn't turn back. He's seething. Carver can see that in the set of his shoulders.

     So Carver talks to those. And because hey, shredded filters, he just starts fucking babbling. "Look, I," he starts, and then he thinks, _This isn't about me_ , and then he wonders who it's about, and the first thing his mind spits out is, "Bethany."

     Cullen half-turns back, just enough for Carver to see his frown of confusion. Yeah, that wasn't really language. Carver rubs a hand over his face and groans and tries again. "Listen, she... I was starting to doubt, too. I mean -- Everyone kept telling me Bethany was dead. Not Marian, she believed me, but everybody else. I would have -- nightmares. Those aliens _doing things_ to her. Experiments. Fucking with her head. I dreamed of her _screaming_." And then to see her among those aliens, an alien smile on her face, her beautiful body pierced with tubes and Maker knows what else, the song of her biotics now a racheting scream from his nightmares -- To know that his nightmares have all been _true_ \-- Carver puts both hands to his head, scrubs at his hair, wishes he could scrub his brain. "But it's been eight years, and I... doubted. And you don't fucking _get it_ , you arse. Why can't you just get it?"

     Cullen turns to stare at him, now, as if he thinks Carver is crazy. Well, Carver _is_ crazy, after eight years of knowing his sister was alive but having no way to find or save her. "What don't I get, Hawke?"

     Carver holds out a hand, willing him to understand, willing himself to be articulate for once. "All that time... I've been thinking. If Bethy had gone to the Templars, if I'd _let_ her go, I... shit. I'd still be able to see her. She might've had to fight off fucked-up lyrium-addled rapists -- " Cullen makes a sound of angry disgust again, but Carver says in a rush, "but at least some of the other Templars would be, you know, _decent_ , like, like maybe you. Maybe they'd help her. And they'd all be human, so _I_ could help her. I would know where she was, I could fucking shoot them! Do you get it? She'd be alive. But now it's _like_ she's died, only... worse. Because I failed her in every way a brother can. Because I wouldn't let her just go to the sodding Templars!"

     He's run out of words. And because he doesn't want Cullen to see him cry, he puts his face down on his knees and scrubs his hair and rocks a little, because that's the only way he can vent what he's feeling.

     Beyond him, Cullen is silent for a moment. Then he moves closer, his footsteps slow. Reluctant, though that's maybe Carver's imagination. Maybe Cullen's just sluggish, after hours of fitful dreams. Maybe he's afraid to approach a man who's clearly having some kind of breakdown. But then Cullen says, "Hawke." And there's such gentleness in that word, such compassion, that it just cuts Carver into little pieces.

     He shifts again, though, and Carver has to pull himself out of his own navel enough to mumble at his knees, "Don't touch me. 'nless you can keep your biotics to yourself."

     Cullen inhales a little. Carver thinks he's about to get pissed off again, but instead he says, "Ah. Yes," and sighs. He seems to hesitate. "Forgive me. Isabela... explained." So he knows he's the reason Carver just banged Anders into a stupor. Carver shakes his head, not wanting to think about it.

     "May I sit beside you, Hawke, at least? As it seems we are both in need of company at the moment."

     Always so bloody fancy. But Carver nods, because he doesn't want to be alone, even if all he's got in him is sitting here and aching in silence.

     So Cullen moves to gingerly sit beside him on the port sill -- with a good two or three inches of space between them, how thoughtful. And it helps. Cullen doesn't say anything, either, but it _helps_. So Carver sits up and scrubs his face, trying to at least be a good silent companion. Probably fails at that, too, but Cullen seems more tolerant than usual, and for once doesn't judge.

     It isn't quite enough, though; Carver's feeling antsy again. He sighs and shifts a little closer. "Isabela tell you, uh, about me needing to get felt up now and again?"

     Cullen shifts a little, palpably uncomfortable. Didn't seem to bother him when Carver moved, though, Carver notes. It's just the talk that's making him hinky. "She did not use that precise language, but... yes." He hesitates. "Ah... and you are now sufficiently... That is, has Anders provided..."

     "Sex, yeah." Carver yawns. "That helped a lot. Not feeling so understimmed now. But there's other stuff that helps, too. If I lean on your shoulder, can you keep your biotics quiet?"

     Cullen tenses a little, though Carver can't tell whether that's him being prickly again or if it's because he doesn't like being touched. Carver probably should've asked. But -- "I, er, I suppose I can," Cullen says, with awkward dignity. "If it will aid you."

     "Just focus on something other than me. Like, uh, the table, or that wall-hanging." When Cullen fixes his gaze on the wall-hanging, Carver leans over to rest his head on Cullen's shoulder. He's braced to jerk away, and maybe to quash a biotic flare, but Cullen's biotics stay quiet. "Yeah, good. Thanks."

     Cullen's shoulder is very firm with muscle, but also very warm. He puts out a more heat than Anders, and he smells of sweat -- not unpleasantly -- and dark energy, and very faintly of the soap that was in the guest bathroom. He's unnerved by Carver's need for contact, Carver can tell, but at least he's being decent about it. "Did, ah, did Anders give you no comfort at all?"

     Carver almost laughs at the prudish euphemism, but Cullen is trying, so Carver figures he can do at least that much, too. "Oh, there was plenty of _comfort_. But he's tired, and you're here, and you're not being a dick for once, so I figured I'd get a little here, too." Cullen feels good. Carver sighs and feels himself beginning to relax again. "Don't worry. Not gonna ask you take Anders' place with me in bed or anything."

     Cullen shifts a little, like he's got something to say... but he doesn't say it. Which is fine by Carver. Seems like they get along best in silence.

     So -- quietly, together -- they sit there until the grim aethers of the night's dreams fade away.

#

     Anders slides the door open manually, just enough to peer through a sliver of space. He watches long enough to be sure that Carver and Rutherford aren't going to kill each other, necessitating a convenient accidental intervention. Maker, they're even acting like friends; it's a Feastday miracle.

     Satisfied as to the safety of his crew and temporary crew, Anders shoves the door shut again and flops back into the bed with a heavy sigh. It smells of Carver and sex and the faint ozone whiff of his biotics, which is nice. In fact, Anders feels fairly certain that he should get some rest, because Carver is young and lovely and seems the demanding sort even when he isn't being half driven out of his skin by resonance effects --

     The ping against his middle ear is delicate, and familiar. Anders frowns a little, opening his eyes. "I thought you weren't going to contact me here," he says softly, to the air. "Too great a chance of the pirates picking up your comm signal."

     "That risk exists whether I speak to you or not," Justice says. "I am always connected to you, after all. But I have risked this transmission to warn you. Isabela is lying."

     Anders sighs; it turns into a yawn. Maker, Carver's already wearing him out. "I sort of assumed she was, about _something_. Have you figured out what?"

     "She has stolen something from the aliens. They are in pursuit."

     Anders sits up at once. _"What?"_

     "I've scanned _the Illusive Woman's_ records, and found multiple references to their first encounter with the alien dreadnought," Justice says, in its relentlessly calm voice. "She told you that they got a team aboard; this appears to be true. That the team stole the Identify Friend/Foe key you will need to access the Omega 4 relay; this is also true. However, in the bowels of this ship is a heavily-shielded and guarded cargo chamber. It exists separately from the ship's power grid and network; I cannot access it."

     "Huh. Any clues as to what's in there?"

     "None. Surveillance records and data related to this have been purged. But since this chamber was created within the ship, there has been a change to the pattern of attacks by the aliens. They have ceased to target colonies with a high biotic population. They are instead attacking any location that _the Illusive Woman_ visits, three to five days after."

     "Maker's Breath." Anders runs a hand through his tumbled hair. The braid is coming loose. "She wants us to risk our lives, but doesn't disclose key information? Well, that's just unacceptable."

     "Do you mean to break your alliance?" It's not Anders' imagination that Justice sounds hopeful. It prefers being firmly on the side of goodness and justice; pirates are too amoral for its tastes. "I am certain that with sublight engines, we could reach a port within the year -- "

     Anders shakes his head. "We need Isabela right now. But we also need to be prepared, if these aliens are likely to come after us. I wonder if she knows?" He taps his fingers on one knee, thinking hard, and then sets his jaw. "I'm going to go see what this thing is."

     "If you're caught... Isabela is a pirate."

     Anders smiles. "So are we, at the moment." He sobers a little. "I may be from here forth, really. Don't know if I dare go back to the Alliance after this. So perhaps it's time to show our new allies how potentially valuable I am."

     Justice sounds disapproving, but resigned. "Very well. Shall I alert Commander Rutherford and Lieutenant Vallen?"

     "No. There are things about me that neither of them might be able to accept, which a pirate might. Don't you think?"

     "I am uncomfortable with this plan."

     Anders sighs. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, old friend. But no more talking, now. Let me think."

     So Justice goes silent. Anders lies back, mind racing as he plans, tapping one hand on his belly as he works the angles. When the door opens and Carver comes in, Anders barely notices -- though he starts paying attention again quickly when Carver strips off his boxers and crawls across the sheets toward him with palpable intent. He's better, Anders notes; the worst of the resonance effects have been alleviated, at least for the time being. It's all Carver, now, and Carver is all about Anders. Such a very lovely boy.

     "You look like you're up to something," Carver drawls.

     Anders grins and licks his lips, letting his eyes roam down Carver's body. "Perhaps I should be the one saying that about you."

     Carver chuckles a little, ducking his eyes in that fetching way he does when his guard's down. Then he looks up, and the intensity of his gaze takes Anders' breath away. "Kiss for luck?" he asks.

     Anders can't help grinning. _Ah, Maker. I could love you, little Hawke, if things were different. Alas._

     Doesn't mean they can't savor the present while it lasts, though. So Anders pulls Carver down, and Carver finds his mouth, and for a time the galaxy shrinks down to something comprehensible and warm and good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I don't think I'd realized that the resonance effects evoke autistic stimming. Gonna have to work to make it clearer that this isn't the same thing, because I don't want to fall into "magic disability" territory. Writing sex pollen is hard!
> 
> Also, I am belatedly realizing that this is the first time I've tried to write a story where Cullen hasn't yet had the change of heart/loyalties that canonically comes at the end of DA2. It's really getting in the way. Pre- "come to Jesus" Cullen is a giant dick, and it keeps sending Carver into full tsundere mode. Writing tsundere is hard!
> 
> Starting to run out of steam on this story, just a warning; it's taking longer than expected to get the boys into bed. So now it's a race to see what runs out first: this plot, or my interest.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, poor Aveline.

     Cullen lies in bed, eyes shut, panting as he lets himself be consumed by Hawke's lovemaking.

     (He knows he should not do this. He know's it's wrong, voyeuristic, obsessive, a sign that the eezo contamination has perhaps damaged his morals... and yet. Cullen has done many wrong things in his life, though he has prayed endlessly to the Maker for the strength to be shed of his sins. When he falters, he tries to atone, at least -- so somehow, he will find a way to make this up to Hawke. Somehow.)

     In sinful detail, he imagines Hawke's naked body. Hawke is always so careless about showing it off, is he not? He cannot mind if others take pleasure in him, then. All that smooth, barely-blemished skin... Sleek, heavy musculature, lithe grace, quick reflexes; he is built like the N7 he is, a warrior born. The stark black of the tattoos on each of his shoulders -- a stylized coat-of-arms-style hawk and gryphon... Ah, and Cullen remembers glimpsing one more tattoo on his arse as well, though he has not gazed at that one long enough to identify it. He imagines these things now as he feels Hawke's excitement rise. Imagines touching him, even as another man's hands stir sensation on that exquisite skin. It is a torment, a wrongness, depravity in every way... and yet he does it. He cannot help himself.

     (Cullen's hand is beneath the covers, of course. He has put his bodysuit pants into the cleaner. Nothing touches him but finely-threaded sheets and his own trembling hand.)

     Ordinary Cullen must work to keep his connection with Hawke attenuated, distracting himself so that he will not feel what Hawke feels. Now there are no distractions. Now he writhes as Hawke writhes, touches his own throat and chest as Hawke swallows or arches, and shudders as Hawke rides ever-closer to orgasm. How strange to think of the body touching Hawke and realize it is Anders, his captain -- but Cullen thrusts this thought aside to focus on Hawke. Hawke, who is breathing hard, hot all over, filled with an ache of building arousal that is something close to pain. Is that lovely skin of his dotted with sweat right now? Probably. Cullen imagines it: goosebumps rising around one nipple, Hawke's faint down of hair dotted with droplets. He's lying on his back, legs spread, thrusting up against heat and pressure, mouth open in a pant, it is almost perfect... almost. Now slickness and tight heat encloses Hawke's cock, and Hawke writhes beneath this.

     (He can feel Hawke's throat vibrating. How he _moans_. How Cullen wishes he could hear those moans. His hand works faster.)

     But something frustrates Hawke, and in his dissippation Cullen groans with it, too. The steady surges of pleasure are almost perfect. Almost exactly what Hawke needs, and yet... Anders' hands on his skin are gentler than Hawke craves. Anders has suffused Hawke's senses, making his skin prickle all over and filling his head with the scent of sex and murmuring in his ear and sliding a finger into Hawke's mouth so that he may taste sweat and skin... but somehow it isn't enough. Anders is a languid, teasing lover whose skill is writ in Hawke's reactions. Still... somehow it falls short.

     And this is maddening to Cullen. _Does he not see how you offer your wrists to his hand?_ He thinks this at Hawke, though it is nonsensical; Hawke cannot hear him. _Can he not feel you ache for more?_ But of course, Anders cannot do this either.

     Only Cullen can feel Hawke stretching himself out, making an invitation of his posture -- and only Cullen feels how this invitation goes unanswered. He senses that Hawke hopes Anders will pin him down. He feels how much Hawke wants to be shoved against the headboard or wall. He _knows_ how disappointing it is when Anders kisses him and it is _gentlemanly_ \-- polite tenderness, rather than the devouring storm that Hawke wants. There is guilt mingled into Hawke's frustration; he's grateful to Anders, and maybe that's why he does not demand more. But it's wrong for Hawke to think like this, Cullen thinks fiercely. Hawke is too beautiful and too good; he could have any number of lovers, should he want them. He should want for nothing.

     _If you were with me,_ Cullen thinks -- and then does not allow himself to wish for the impossible.

     But then he becomes aware of something new. Hawke is on the brink, breathing hard and clutching at Anders and _needing_ , any more complex emotions lost amid the welter of pleasure. (Cullen works himself faster, needing too, pulled along -- ) He can feel, though, that Hawke has tossed his head back and is mouthing words. In silence, or a whisper; his throat does not vibrate as he pants. The words are nonsensical. _Fuck fuck fuck_ , and _don't you fucking stop_ and _yeah Maker oh Maker give me fuuuuuuck_. Babbling in his dissolution.

     And then because Hawke is a healthy young man and the conclusion is inevitable regardless of his frustration, he arches and sucks in breath and shudders with the first throes of orgasm, and this time he mouths --

     _Cuuuuuuuullen. Oh, fuck, Cull!_

     And Cullen freezes, his eyes opening wide.

     In another room, Hawke comes. Cullen tries to stop himself from being dragged along, tries to think, _Did he, was that, my name_ \-- but it has been too cursed long since he's masturbated and even longer since he had a lover. Hawke's ecstasy catches him up and wrings him like a sponge. Cullen can do nothing but curl onto his side and grunt into his pillow until he is done and dazed and sticky-handed. Only then does Hawke's pleasure let him go, and only then can Cullen focus on his own thoughts and feelings enough to tune Hawke out.

     Because it must be admitted, at last, that what he feels toward Carver Hawke is _most definitely_ lust. Everything else is an indistinct morass: tenderness, fury; loathing for Hawke's support of the Anchorate's radicalism; empathy for his suffering; admiration of his strength; distaste for his atheism. He simultaneously wants to protect Hawke, and throttle him. The lust, though, is clear.

     Uneasy bedfellows, hate and desire, not the least because guilt lurks ever-nearby, hoping to make a sordid threesome of the thing.

     With a soft, weary groan, Cullen gets up to look for something to wipe his hands.

#

     Cullen doesn't sleep after that, since there's only a bare hour 'til what would be morning muster on the _Justice_. If nothing else, he has duty to sustain him, so he gets up and sends a brief communique to Agatha -- _Returning today, all is well, keep the bloody pirates off the ship_ \-- then heads to the shower.

     The lack of sleep has left him bleary, but the shower is as luxurious as everything else in the suite; it uses real water instead of sonics, and gets beautifully hot to soothe sore muscles and the incipient headache Cullen's developing, probably from lack of sleep. The soaps, lotions, and shampoos are tempting, so he's deep in washing his hair, soap in his eyes, when he hears someone come into the bathing room.

     "A moment," he murmurs, feeling abruptly guilty that he has taken longer than the traditional military three-minute shower. But he's mostly done. "I just need to -- "

     Hands seize him. A bag is dropped over his head. Someone puts him in a headlock and starts dragging him out of the shower stall.

     Startled and reacting purely by instinct, Cullen flails out with an elbow. It meets flesh, and someone grunts in pain. The grip on his throat loosens, though not by much, and Cullen twists, trying to wring free. But someone sweeps his legs, and when he falls it's that much easier for his assailants to haul him along. He shouts, which prompts someone to punch him in the belly with an armored fist. It hurts badly enough to drive him to the brink of vomiting, and the agony hampers his movements thereafter -- but in any case he remembers too late that the rooms are soundproof. He is on his own.

     And so Cullen fights with everything he has -- punching wildly, kicking randomly, at one point latching onto an attacker's bodysuit sleeve and yanking at it. All of this is to no avail. There are five of them? Six? Too many for one naked, unarmed man to fight. Isabela has warned him that her crew has no love of Templars; now Cullen will learn what this means.

     But through the nausea and adrenaline, a new and familiar awfulness begins to rise: phantom echoes, sudden acrid tastes in his mouth. He can see nothing but the cloth bag over his head, but its movements flutter like bat-wings before his eyes...

     Sweet Maker. They're taking him out of Hawke's sleeping range. The anchor link is breaking.

     _My knight!_ he thinks, before he can stop himself; it is pure panic. But the conduit between them is only one-way; Hawke cannot feel Cullen's agitation. And in this state, Cullen can feel nothing of Hawke at all.

     "Let me go!" he tries to shout, but the arm chokes him. He can feel his biotics just beneath his skin, a mad roil of chaotic energy whipped higher by his panic. When the power comes forth, he will have absolutely no control, he realizes with instinctive horror. "Stop this, damn you!"

     "Loud fucker," someone male says. "Hit him again."

     "Don't want to kill him," replies a woman in a heavy Omega accent. She's somewhere near Cullen's feet. He tried to kick her once and thinks he got her in the face, but now she's got his knees tight. "Think I got a rib last time. Forgot he wasn't in armor. Look at him flop!" She giggles.

     "I can't!" Cullen shouts. He's not even sure what he means. "Don't, stop -- "

     His assailants stop moving. Someone puts something very sharp to Cullen's throat, just under the cloth bag. "Look here," the male voice breathes in Cullen's ear. "We've got a good buyer for you, Blondie, and we're gonna deliver. You decide if it'll be in one piece, or a few. Yeah?"

     Not Templar-haters, then; _slavers_. Cullen groans as his biotics unfurl, the light of them jagged and jangling to his perception. The anchor link is still there, but he shudders at its thinness. Another few steps, perhaps even one, and it will break. Well. At least the slavers will die first. "I won't be able to control it," he warns, his voice shaking. In spite of everything he is laughing weakly, madly. Being without the anchor is like going insane. "Without my anchor, I'll kill us all. I hope it is quick..."

     Someone else curses. "You said he was Alliance!"

     "He is! Everybody knows they don't let unstable biotics on ships!"

     "Fucking Void." That's the woman on his knees; her grip loosens as his aura begins to spark and unfurl around him. "He wasn't lying. He'll kill us all -- "

     "Maker help me," Cullen gasps. It is both prayer and epithet; he does not _want_ to lose control. _The Illusive Woman_ is a dreadnought and enormous, but he has no idea how close they are to a hull, or to some vital system. If he takes out the drive core --

     Then, from somewhere down a corridor -- but approaching rapidly -- there is the sound of running feet, the familiar buzz-hum of an omni-blade being activated. The feet are curiously light-sounding, as if bare rather than boots... But all at once Cullen feels the anchor link snap back into solidity.

     Hawke. It's _Hawke_.

     "How _dare_ you sons of bitches -- " snarls Hawke's voice, and then one of Cullen's assailants grunts and cries out with the sound of what is unmistakably an omni-blade strike.

     The man with the knife to Cullen's throat curses and resumes dragging him with one arm. " _Kill_ him, damn you! It's just one guy! I'll get the merchandise to the shuttle."

     "You will not," Cullen snarls, overwhelmed with sudden, blue-blazing fury. They will _not_ threaten his anchor. He has no idea what he's doing, but he wills the knife away from his throat and suddenly the man cries out and flies away from him. Cullen hears the cruch as he strikes a bulkhead, and does not move again.

     Then Cullen claws at the cloth 'round his head, but it's been tied on with a crude drawstring whose knot has tightened with his struggles. He can hear fighting not far off, Hawke against the rest of the people who took him, and the sound is moving away. There must be too many of them, Cullen realizes. In the narrow corridors of a ship, multiple attackers would force Hawke into a running battle, taking on each of them one by one. And does Hawke have the same anchoring range when he's concentrating on fighting for his life?

     And indeed, once Cullen finally breaks the knot in the drawstring and gets the damned bag off his head, he sees that it's exactly as he suspected. Hawke is something like fifteen meters off, and being harried back by four others. They can't flank and overwhelm him, but Hawke can't stand his ground, either -- because like Cullen, he's naked, though at least he has an omni-blade. Even that isn't helping; Hawke uses a two-hander, and in the confines of the corridor, he can't wind it up enough for any real power strikes.

     Twenty meters was the range he gave Cullen, and that means Cullen's going to have to be the one to go to him. Cullen curses and staggers to his feet, throwing aside the cloth bag. Without even his omni-tool -- hadn't thought he'd need it in the bloody _shower_ \-- he's got nothing but biotics to help Hawke. But when he tries to will something useful into being -- another lash, to cut down his foes -- the power flails and he rips a panel off the wall behind him instead. Then he remembers how Hawke had to _steer_ him, more or less, in the shuttle bay. His biotics are too wild; without Hawke acting as a living rudder, Cullen can't even point them in the right direction. Damnation! That doesn't mean he can't just fling raw force in every direction, which should at least harry the slavers -- but what if he harms Hawke too?

     Maker's Breath. If he could just _get_ to Hawke, everything would be all right.

     Cullen is not aware of the change in the air around him until he steps forward with his fists clenched, thinking he might at least grapple one of the slavers enough to aide Hawke. The instant he moves, the corridor lurches around him. Startled, Cullen flinches back, and feels... pulled forward again? Yes. Something is forming in the air around him, in front of him, distorting the walls and floor on all sides. Is the anchor link breaking again? No -- but the hairs on Cullen's skin have prickled. His biotic aura is brightening, intensifying, especially right in front of him. He can hear a deepening hum, feel a thickening tension and power, and everything in Cullen suddenly feels heavy and strange, imbalanced. It is as if gravity has shifted from below him to in front of him, and is _increasing_ \--

     One of the slavers stops and looks around at the rising hum, frowning. Her eyes widen. "Oh, fuck! The biotic!" That gets the others' attention. Three of them leave off trying to get at Hawke and try to get past him instead, though this only means that the instant they do, Hawke stabs the fourth in the shoulder. The man yelps and stumbles into the wall -- but frowns and wrenches himself around as he, too, hears or senses whatever the others did. Then he, too, starts trying to escape, his eyes wide. There's nowhere to go, however; this corridor has no other doors, intersects no other hallways. At one end there is Hawke, armed and deadly. At the other, there's... whatever Cullen is doing.

     Cullen has _no idea_ what he's doing. But the slavers seem utterly terrified of it, and Cullen can sense that something -- he doesn't know what -- has passed a point of no return. Whatever this terrible power is building toward, it will happen now, whether Cullen wants or not. Cullen _does not want_. "Hawke!" he cries. "Help me!"

     Hawke looks up from the slavers with bared teeth -- and gasps, his eyes widening. "Oh, fuck," he also says, which does nothing for Cullen's nerves. But then Hawke holds out a hand, as if to reassure Cullen. It helps a little to realize Hawke at least knows what this is. "Okay, okay, Maker, Cull, you never do anything the safe way, do you? Okay, corridor's too developed -- shit. Cull, you pretty arse, you've got to go through with it."

     "What? What is 'it'? Hawke -- "

     Hawke shakes his head. "No time for a fucking lesson. Remember the cup?"

     "The c -- Yes. The cup? What about the cup?"

     "You're gonna _be_ the cup now." He spreads his arms, ignoring the slavers, and grins. One of them manages to scramble past him; the others tangle and trip over themselves in their panic. " _Come_ to me, Cull. Plow right through these fuckers; they're nothing to you. Don't think! Don't fight it! Just come on!"

     The power that suffuses Cullen is the most overwhelming, terrifying thing he has ever experienced. Like standing on the precipice of a chasm; like running toward a thresher maw. When he looks at Hawke, it is as if he stares through a tunnel, whose edges are darkening and becoming more deadly by the second. If the tunnel closes --

     But Hawke is there, at the other end of it. _Come to me, Cull._

     So Cullen... lets go. He stops trying to back away from the tunnel, instead letting himself fall forward --

     And the world blurs into streaks around him, the air ripping apart with a low snarl --

     And his blood surges with adrenaline and his lips draw back from his teeth and he thinks at and through the slavers, _You aren't even worthy to touch him!_

     And then he is a comet streaking through the sky. He is a projectile, blazing at the speed of light as reality itself warps around him and then snaps back into being --

     Then with a _crack_ like thunder, the world is right again.

     The remaining slavers are falling to the floor behind him, broken and dead. Hawke... ah. _My Hawke,_ he thinks. His heart settles; the fear is gone. Hawke has caught Cullen -- been bowled over by the force of the impact, but of course he's fine. Cullen would never hurt him. Hawke laughs up at Cullen, in fact, because Cullen is fine too. Cullen is ablaze with his own power and his enemies are dead and Hawke is here, safe and won and beautiful and _his_ , and all feels right in his life for the first time in years.

     "Fucking _Maker!_ " Hawke exults, and oh, he is so proud. "You see that shit? Fucking _perfect_ , Cull! I would never have let you try that yet, too fucking complex, you could've ended up fused with a wall or out in space or worse, but you _did_ it and you _killed_ those stupid fucks and you're amazing!"

     Cullen cannot help grinning too; Hawke's delight is infectious. Hawke's delight is _gorgeous_. And in this moment, Cullen cannot care about petty trivialities like his Templar oath or Meredith's commands or Hawke's questionable morals. In this moment they are naked together, Hawke pliant beneath him and shining in the reflected light of Cullen's biotics, and he is so warm, willing, _wanting_. Yes, ah -- yes, it is there. Desire tempered by regret and resignation. Hawke wants to kiss Cullen, but he thinks he cannot. He thinks Cullen does not want him.

     So Cullen bends down and kisses Hawke. _Carver_. He kisses his Carver.

     It is everything he's craved for days. Carver makes a soft sound of surprise, but he does not resist or freeze, which would prompt Cullen to pull away immediately. Instead, Carver feels surprise followed by a sudden upwelling of relief, and a sharp thrill that is delightful to taste. And meanwhile he is sweet-lipped, salty-mouthed; the combination is so strange that Cullen delves deeper, presses harder, wanting to know more of him, wanting to devour. Carver makes another sound, unmistakably pleased; yes, _that_ is the sort of kiss he's been wanting. So Cullen offers him small thrusts of his tongue, to tease and to entice -- _I would give you more, like this, if you but ask_. Carver's skin is so soft against his own, exactly how Cullen has imagined. Carver's cock is -- Cullen moves a little, thrusting against him, and ohhhhyes _Carver thrusts back_. Carver kisses back, too, eating at Cullen's mouth hungrily, swallowing down Cullen's sighs. His legs lift and settle around Cullen's hips. Cullen can feel Carver's strong, callused hands on his flanks. The fingers tighten, digging in a little. The pain is slight and exquisite and Cullen wants so much more.

     His biotics do, too. The glow whispers along his skin; he can feel it wanting to envelop Carver as well. He holds it back, though. Carver has told him never to touch him with biotics, and now it is clear that _without_ biotics, Carver is more than willing.

     So Cullen finally lifts his head. He has to catch his breath, swallow, lick his lips, but then he blurts, "Sorry. I should have -- I ask your pardon."

     Carver blinks, a little dazed. "Yeah, no, no apology fucking needed. Maker. _Shit_ , Cull."

     Cullen thinks this might indicate approval. And he _wants_ , oh so much -- but he must _ask,_ because that is proper, even if nothing else about this whole affair is. "Carver. What else would you have of me?"

     Carver shudders. Cullen can feel how much he wants, too, both emotionally and down below. "Shit," he breathes again, awed and hungry and delicious in his vulgarity. " _Shit_ , Cullen. The fuck didn't you _say_ you were up for this? But I thought, a Templar, and you aren't Anchorate, and... shit."

     Cullen shakes his head, too consumed for words. _Anything_ , he thinks. _Anything you want, anything I can give you, please, Carver --_

     But now there are more feet in the corridor, this time in boots. Anders and Aveline pound up, Anders in just his bodysuit-pants and boots but carrying his pistol and omni-staff, while Aveline -- naturally -- is fully armed and armored. Behind them come two more of Isabela's people, these ones clearly on Anders' side. But Anders stops short as he reaches them, blinking at the sight of Cullen and Carver naked on the floor, surrounded by bodies.

     Carver tilts his head back to see Anders. "Uh, yeah," he says, a little sheepishly now. "Well, this is, uh, awkward."

     Anders stares, then shakes his head. To Cullen's amazement, he seems only a little displeased, and more than a little amused. "That is perhaps the understatement of the age. Rutherford, you never cease to amaze me."

     "Ser," Cullen blurts. He knows he should get up and salute, but he would prefer to salute only with his hand and not... other parts. Blushing terribly, he squirms. "I'm sorry, I..." He falters to silence. Words are really inadequate right now, in any case.

     "Shit, quit moving about," Hawke mutters beneath him, slapping Cullen's flank and trying to shift his own hips away. This helps none.

     "Unbelievable," Aveline sighs, turning away to preserve Cullen's dignity. "Am I cursed? Why. Just why."

     Anders grins and folds his arms, blatantly enjoying himself now. "What's happened, Commander, is that you survived creating a point-to-point scale mass effect corridor, warping spacetime and effectively reshaping reality on a quantum level. And, incidentally, pulverizing those fools who just tried to kidnap you. Good job."

     It's gibberish. Cullen shakes his head in confusion and consternation. "Ser... what?"

     Anders laughs. "It means you're a vanguard, Rutherford. Congratulations! Now get up, both of you -- you've nothing I haven't seen, recently in Hawke's case -- and go put some clothes on. Then let's go tell Isabela why a handful of her people are dead."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (C'mon, you didn't think I was gonna kill Aveline, did you? This ain't that kinda fanfic party.)
> 
> Sorry this one's a bit later than the rest; had to rewrite half the chapter in order to accelerate the story's romance timeline. Apologies; I'd hoped to build up to the relationship more organically, but I'm getting bored, so had to do this to re-engage. Whyyyy can't I just do PWPs like normal people? They would save me so much time.
> 
> Oh, and for anyone who hasn't played ME, what Cullen did is called a "biotic charge," and it's my favorite move. Examples: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXLwVHI2f4o.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for coitus interruptus. Telling folks that just so you won't get mad at me.

     Not even three hours before --

     As Carver lay drowsy and sated in the wake of their second bout, Anders trailed fingers down his spine and murmured, "So when are you going to invite Cullen to bed?"

     Carver, halfway to sleep and pulled back by the question, made a rude sound from the pillow of his arms. "Most blokes like to _sleep_ after a good spend, Anders."

     "I generally like to lie awake and chat a bit, myself," Anders replied brightly. "Made me very popular with women, back at the Pearl. In any case -- Hawke. _Carver_. It's time. My poor commander is so confused, and it's mostly because you haven't explained anything to him."

     Carver sighed in exasperation and finally sat up, since Anders wasn't going to let him, or the matter, lie. "S'pointless," Carver said, rubbing a hand over his hair. "He's a sodding Chantry boy. Might even be a virgin for all I know. He'd never be up for... therapy sex." He'd grimaced at the idea, even though that was close enough. "I don't even like him, anyway."

     "Ah," Anders said. "You dislike him so much that you spent a lovely hour leaning on his shoulder, not too long ago. Looked very soothing. Maker, you hate him so that you _called his name when you came_ , I noticed."

Carver froze, feeling himself grow hot, and not in the good way. "Ah, fuck. Did I?"

     "Oh, yes. While you were in _my_ mouth, I should note." At least Anders didn't seem particularly put out about it, Carver noted. Anders lay on his side, stretched out and grinning as he said, "It's hard to feel too put out about it, though. He's fine competition, isn't he? Competent, stalwart, handsome if you like the upright sort. Before this whole business with his biotics, I was actually thinking about recommending Cullen for the next frigate or cruiser captaincy." Then Anders sighed. "That's out of the question now, though. An 'out' biotic, promoted by the brass? Never happen. That's if Cullen doesn't haul himself off to one of those Templar concentration camps like he said he would."

     Carver frowned, laying his head down again. "Yeah, but that's the _problem_ , Anders. He's a sodding fanatic. Sure, he's playing nice now -- most of the time -- but if the Templars change the rules to let him back in, he'll be there with bells on, I just know it."

     "I'm not so certain about that." Anders rolled onto his back, stretching and yawning. "He's changing, Carver. Two weeks ago, I would have sworn to you that Cullen would die before enduring one day as a biotic. Or in an Anchorate's presence, without trying to kill him. Or in _my_ presence, now that he knows what I am. Becoming a biotic has forced him to confront the irrationality of Templar beliefs, and it's thrown him for a loop. So has his attraction to you."

     Carver laughed. "He's not attracted to me, Anders, for fuck's sake. He can barely stand to speak to me without adding 'terrorist' to every other sentence!"

     "True, but it's not as though that precludes attraction. The problem is that you're a very _alluring_ terrorist." He grinned, which made Carver chuckle, though some of that was still at the notion of stiffnecked Cullen -- intriguing though he was -- deigning to desire _him_. "And -- Carver, you know as well as I do that the resonance effect only kicks in when -- "

     "Oh, don't fucking say it." Carver rolled his eyes. "That's superstitious Traverse nonsense. Nobody's ever proven it."

     " -- _when_ ," Anders said, firmly, despite Carver's glaring, "there's already some sort of psychosocial attachment -- sexual, familial, whatever. And frankly I'm inclined to agree with Isabela and her pirates on this. The Anchorate's better than the Chantry when it comes to embracing ideas from beyond the home system, but not by much. Did you _really_ just dismiss the whole bloody Traverse as provincial? You, a boy from Lothering?"

     Carver blushed. "At least Lothering's on Thedas. The Traverse is the _frontier_ , Anders. Lawless, poor -- "

     "And rapidly becoming the center of human society," Anders interrupted. "Half the time I think that's what's wrong with the Chantry. They're afraid because humankind is outgrowing its homeworld, with all that implies. Don't think like them, Carver. Please. But back to my point -- You shared a resonance with your sister, didn't you?"

     And Carver froze.

     _waking with the dawn when he wanted to sleep in, because Bethany was awake. Sitting and giggling while Bethy's biotics crawled over his back, making minute adjustments to his implant and nervous system -- "Hold still, I want to fix this!" "It bloody tickles, hurry up!" Never being able to hide anything from her. "Maker's Breath, Carver, I felt what you were up to in the shower, just go ahead and ask her out before you chafe yourself to death." Never **wanting** to hide anything from her, because they were one._

_knowing she wasn't dead knowing **knowing** dreaming of her screaming_

     "Yeah," Carver said, very softly.

     Anders rolled over and slid close enough to put an arm over Carver's back. "I'm sorry," he said, perpetual smile gone for once. "I shouldn't have reminded you of that just to win an argument."

     "S'all right." It wasn't. But Carver had years of practice at faking it. He sighed and bit his lip. "Can't I just keep doing things with you? We're having fun, right?"

     "You could, and I would love that," Anders said, leaning in to kiss his ear. "You're delightful. But with Cullen, you could have more. You've heard what they say about sex and the resonance -- "

     "I don't sodding _want_ more, Anders. With him or anyone else." Carver was sulking and he knew it, but fuck it. "I've got stuff to do." Like finding a way to rescue his sister from shiteating aliens.

     "Might help to have someone watching your back while you do it. And in any case, the resonance will keep tormenting you -- no matter how well I distract you -- for months." Anders shrugged, a warm, rather hairy weight against his side. "Unless you mean to un-anchor him early? Let someone else take over the job?"

     Carver stiffened instantly in affront. "No. Alliance anchors don't know what they're doing and Traverse anchors are a crapshoot. I'm meant to take care of him, and I will. He's _mine_."

     Anders lifted an eyebrow, his mouth curving into a smirk, as Carver realized what he'd said. He groaned and put his head down, turning his face away so Anders wouldn't see him blush -- not that it mattered. Anders had his number.

     And now, bare hours later, Carver's lying on the floor with a lot of horny Templar on top of him, and it's suddenly really fucking clear that Anders was right. Cullen definitely wants him; his dick is hard as shit, and he's moving like he wants to put it somewhere with a purpose. Cullen's not a virgin, either, or at least he doesn't kiss like one. He's fucking _thorough_ about it, opening up Carver and diving deep, like he expects to find a pearl on Carver's tongue. One of his hands comes up under Carver's chin, grasping him by the jaw to hold him still, and that's... whoa. There's just something really... _commanding_ , about that little move. A man who seems to know exactly what Carver needs, and isn't shy about giving it to him.

     He pulls free and Carver really kind of wishes he wouldn't. Gentleman, tho, yeah? Checking in, making sure his attentions are wanted -- even though Carver's inadvertently letting him know he sodding _is_ , down below. Cullen's aura is active, but this time he isn't letting it run wild, which is good. Even just surface contact with it is stoking Carver up like crazy. Can't be helped, though, and the adrenaline running in Carver's blood after that fight is probably contributing to the problem; it's a neurochemical thing, after all. But never mind all that. Cullen's propped on one elbow, letting his free hand trail from Carver's throat and chin down over his pectoral and flank. He doesn't go for the nipple in passing, though his hand pauses and lingers there for a moment. Not taking liberties, just letting Carver know what he _would_ do, if he had permission.

     Carver's about to fucking _give_ him permission, right there on the bloody floor, when Anders and Aveline run up, and things get really awkward for a bit.

     After that they head back to the guest quarters, Av and Anders leading the way and pointedly keeping their backs to Carver and Cullen. Carver's fine by then, apart from being naked, but there aren't any other pirates in the corridors -- seems like a little-used way, probably why the slavers picked it -- so the naked part doesn't bother him. Cullen, tho, hello. He's red-faced about it, covering himself (inadequately) with one hand, but his cock is a fine, beautiful thing, standing up in full salute and even making him walk funny. (Though maybe that's a cracked rib; he's got a livid bruise on his belly in that approximate area, and he presses a hand to it now and again.) Poor, gorgeous boy. Carver catches Cullen's eye as they walk, which is hard because Cullen's looking at the floor in his shame. Carver touches his tongue to his lips. Just a little. Just a suggestion. And Cullen goes redder and looks away and his dick does _not_ settle down. Carver wants to laugh. (And then he wants to blow Cullen crosseyed.)

     Still. Carver knows what it means when Anders gives him a look back in the guest suite, as they split up and poor Cull practically runs into his room. Carver nods with a sigh, and heads off to put some clothes on. It's good having another Anchorate about, even if Anders is doing his own thing; he's got a proper Anchorate attitude about the whole business. Carver would like to keep having him -- but Cullen _isn't_ Anchorate, and probably is the possessive sort. Actually, the resonance will be making him so, even if he isn't. So... yeah. Time for talks.

     (He still has a quick wank before suiting up, 'cause the fight and Cull's biotics have got him heated. It's easy, though, remembering what it felt like to have that big pretty fucker between his legs, in his mouth -- Yeah, Maker _bless_.)

     Armored up and back in the suite's common room, Cullen's looking better; probably took a medi-gel for that rib. Probably had a wank too for that matter, which maybe is why he won't meet Carver's eyes. Aveline looks like she's ready to toss them all out an airlock. Anders is on the comm, talking to probably Isabela; he turns to face them and sighs when he's done. "Well, she's angry, but not at us," he says. "Turns out she suspected she had some slavers hidden among her crew, though she's known throughout the seventy systems for being death on anyone who trades in flesh. Her people have caught that one who escaped your biotic charge, Rutherford, so she's going to question him to find out who else is involved." He sighs a little. "The fellow might end up wishing you'd crushed him; she's on a tear."

     Cullen lifts his chin with admirable dignity for a man who's just shown his captain his dick. "Ser, I know you have no jurisdiction here, but I want it put on record that I do not approve of torture."

     Aveline eyes him sidelong. Carver's thinking what she probably is: Templars go in for torture all the time, in those awful prisons of theirs. Then again, Cullen did say that he tried to stop it, when he could... Maybe Cullen sees Aveline's look, maybe not, but either way his jaw tightens with incipient stubbornness. Anders diffuses the situation neatly, though, by nodding at once. "Quite right. I'll let her know, and back that with my own statement to the same point. But I have no idea if she'll listen, so... might be best if you and the others head back to the _Justice_ now."

     Cullen salutes -- but then frowns. "You aren't coming, ser?"

     "I spotted some old friends among the pirates, in addition to Isabela." Anders smiles. "One does meet all sorts gallivanting about the galaxy, after all. Just going to reconnect with them, and then I'll meet you back on the ship in an hour or two."

     At once, Carver thinks, _Bullshit_. Not that Anders wouldn't know any pirates -- obviously he and Isabela have had a time or two -- but there's something about his story that just rings false. Carver can't claim to really know Anders, after all, but there's something of a cat to the man. He's _always_ up to something.

     Whatever the matter is, though, neither Aveline nor Cullen pick up on it. "As you say, ser," Cullen says, saluting again. "But I believe Aveline should accompany you back to the ship. If there are people on this vessel who capture and sell biotics -- "

     "I'll be fine," Anders says, and this time Carver believes him. "Remember, Rutherford, they came after you in the shower, when you were sure to be unarmed and unarmored and off-guard. That was because a biotic who's _on_ guard is bloody dangerous. And unlike you, I've been doing this all my life. They'd be fools to take me on." He smiles again and lets himself flare a little. Carver's never been able to figure out what it is about Anders' biotics that makes him _crackle_ like that -- like there's lightning under his skin. He might not have the raw power of a C5, but C4s are nothing to sneer at, and with all his experience, Anders could probably teach them all a thing or two.

     Cullen looks dubious, as does Aveline, but Anders then decides the matter by waving jauntily at all of them. "Anyhow, try not to get into trouble on the way back to the ship!" And then he heads for the door. That's it, then.

     In his wake, Cullen shakes his head, then collects the two of them with a glance, and they head back to the _Justice_.

     Agatha's the officer of the watch, and she gives all three of them a frown as they come aboard. After salutes and "all's well"s have been exchanged, she says, "Pirate hospitality a bit lacking? You lot look less than rested."

     Aveline says, firmly, " _I_ slept like a babe." And then she walks off in a huff that has half the crew clearing the way in front of her. While Agatha stares, Cullen -- beet red -- coughs and says, "It was an eventful evening, and morning."

     The lilt of Agatha's eyebrow tells Carver the crew's been noticing a few things that Cullen probably thinks are discreet. He wants to laugh, but poor Cullen's having a rough-enough time as it is. "Yeah," Carver interrupts. "Among other things, your commander here had to deal with some arseholes who stepped out of line. Can you stay on watch a bit longer? He needs to eat."

     Cullen frowns at Carver, probably not liking Carver's high-handedness, but Carver's willing to stand his ground on this. Cullen's stomach settles the matter, though, growling loudly enough that all three of them can hear it; Cullen abruptly looks mortified. He sighs and gives in. "...Very well. Agatha?"

     Agatha's lips twitch, like she wants to smile at Cullen but knows better. "My shift doesn't end 'til 1200 hours anyway, ser; it's no trouble."

     "Very well." Cullen salutes her again. Carver nods to her too, and they head for the elevator. Carver hits the button to head to their apartment. He can feed Cullen and they can have a convo, kill two birds with one stone.

     "Sorry to pull rank," Carver says, in the privacy of the elevator. "But you've got to get into the habit of eating as soon as you can, after using your biotics in combat. Adrenaline can mask your hunger until you end up hypoglycemic. Then as soon as you calm down, you fall over."

     Cullen sighs. "Very well."

     It's suspiciously non-argumentative of him. Carver eyes him and wonders who's replaced the ex-Templar with Taster's Choice. But Cullen isn't meeting his eyes, and there's a certain stiffness in his manner that warns Carver of the actual problem. The better to get this done, then.

     Once they're in the apartment, Carver shucks off his armor -- tossing it carelessly on the desk, despite Cullen's scandalized look -- and starts making pancakes in his bodysuit. Cullen armors down too, pointedly putting his in the armor case and stepping into his room to change into fatigues. Then he comes out and settles gingerly at the table behind Carver. "You aren't ship's cook, Hawke," he says to Carver, when he sees that Carver's got a full spread going on the stove. "I'm perfectly capable of cooking for myself."

     "Good," Carver says, ladling out six fat griddle-cakes. "Biotics who can't cook risk starving. But I _like_ cooking. Gives me room to think." And while the pancakes are cooking, he turns to lean against the counter and sighs. "Or talk, as we need. But food, first."

     Cullen's gets like 1000% stiffer, sitting ramrod straight in his chair. But he only says, "As you like," and then gets quiet. Maybe he's feeling shy, now that the adrenaline of the corridor has faded.

     Carver's quiet, too, while he cooks. Thinking. Testing his feelings over blueberry pancakes. When they're done, and he's added leftover sausage from yesterday as a side-dish, he sets this in front of Cullen and then has some, too, albeit with a smaller plate. Cullen's not ravenous, though he tucks in right and proper. Didn't do much today; biotic charges are powerful, but remarkably efficient. A trained vanguard can do a number of them during battle without depleting too much. Even seems to charge them up a bit.

     Cullen's still listing a little to one side as he eats, though, which Carver doesn't like. He sets down his fork; was done anyway. "The rib?"

     Cullen grimaces. "Yes. I suppose I applied the medi-gel too late. I'll go to Med Bay."

     "Hang on." Carver gets up and kneels beside him. "Let me see."

     Cullen shifts uneasily, but then lifts up his shirt. The bruise on his midriff is ugly, and visibly swollen. Probably pretty painful. Carver lifts a hand, then hesitates and eyes him. "Okay if I touch you?"

     Cullen half-smiles. "We have already touched with more familiarity."

     Oh-ho, maybe not so shy. And those bedroom eyes of his are gonna wreck Carver. "Yeah," Carver says, grinning. "But I wanna be, you know, a gentleman about it."

     "You have ever been proper with me," Cullen says, seriously. "I am the one who has repeatedly made assumptions and presumptions, for all that I claim to be chivalrous. Please forgive me, Carver."

     Maker, it sounds like he's really trying. Carver's so charmed by it that he's going to have to watch himself. "Forgiven," he says, with a shrug to cover how affected he is by the words. "I've probably been a dick to you, too. Anyway, here." He reaches out and puts a hand over the darkest part of the bruise. Then he amps up a little, concentrating to try and modulate the area of effect.

     Cullen shivers all over. "That feels -- indescribable."

     Carver snorts, though he has to keep focused. "Indescribable good or bad?"

     "Good. Very good."

     "Yeah? Light up, then. _Don't_ reach for me. Just push back on this." He nods toward his hand.

     Cullen struggles for a moment. His biotics are still mostly involuntary, Carver notes, reacting to his moods or subconscious thoughts more than his will, but that's about normal for two weeks. He's getting better. When the glimmer rises around him, Carver concentrates carefully to keep Cullen's aura about a micrometer away from his own skin. Got it bad enough for the man as it is. "Push back _here_ ," he directs. "Where my hand is."

     "One can do that?"

     Carver laughs. "Your biotics can do anything you can imagine, Cull, if you focus enough. Come on."

     So, after a moment, Carver begins to feel Cullen's power rise. The aura does creep around the edges of Carver's hand, though it flinches back when Carver looks up at Cullen in warming. Cullen grimaces and shuts his eyes to concentrate. "It's so difficult not to reach for _you_."

     Carver moves his hand a little. Cullen's biotics react as he hopes, moving to meet his hand, so he pulls the power to concentrate in the damaged tissue. "Yeah, well. That's what I wanted to talk about. The reason I push your biotics off is because if we're not careful, we could end up in something called a resonance lock. That's what your biotics want -- why they keep trying to grab me. It's even why you start feeling ornery when I spend time with Anders. And we've only been linked two weeks, which means we're especially prone to it."

     Cullen's aura crawls a little as he frowns. "And a 'resonance lock' is...?"

     "Permanent anchoring." Carver deliberately says it harshly, so Cullen will understand the danger. Cullen's eyes widen a little. "I wouldn't be able to un-anchor you again, no matter how hard I try. It would be limitless -- you could cross the galaxy and the link would stay in place -- but you'd never be able to self-support. Which means the registration you have now would be revoked. You'd be illegal, Cull. They'd boot you out of the military entirely, revoke your Alliance citizenship, confiscate everything you own, and call the Templars on you even if you didn't already want to go with them. And I wouldn't be able to function as an anchor again for anyone else. It'd be the end of both of us."

     "I'd no idea such a thing was possible. Of course I shall take care from here forth, then." He hesitates; frowns. Carver can almost guess his thoughts. "But... it feels so natural to reach for you, I must admit. So _right_."

     Carver sighs. "There's some -- especially out here in the Traverse -- who hold that it's right for biotics to have permanent anchors. That the resonance, when it happens, is a good thing. But it's a _selfish_ thing, Cull. There's a shortage of anchors in the Alliance. What works in the Traverse, and for every other race that uses anchoring, can't work here. Every biotic can't have their own anchor. They just can't."

     Because he's touching Cullen, he feels the flex of muscle when Cullen tenses. It stirs a completely inappropriate response in Carver's groin, but he forces it aside. Damned resonance. Cullen says, though, "There is something you aren't telling me." It's soft, but sharp, like his expression. "You aren't saying the resonance _isn't_ a good thing, I notice. Just that the Alliance's numbers cannot support it."

     "I mean -- " Carver looks away, uncomfortable. He'd hoped Cullen's thoughts wouldn't move in this direction. Who would have thought a Templar...? "What you're feeling, what I'm feeling... The biotics just amplify whatever's already there. It's not bad that I want you, or you me." He blushes to say this. Why? He's had Anders and dozens of others over the years. This, though, feels different. Because of the bloody resonance. Cullen inhales a little at this confession, too. Likes that Carver admitted it. Well, shit.

     So Carver has to push on. Has to say, "But you can't _have_ me, Cull, that's the thing. After you're able to self-support, I'll have to move on. Help some other poor sod who can't control their biotics -- and meanwhile keep looking for a way to get Bethany back. So... don't catch feelings, is what I'm saying. All right?"

     Cullen's brows have drawn together in a full-on scowl. "I am not an _inconstant_ lover, Hawke. It isn't my nature -- "

     "But I _am_ , see? I have to be." Carver hates himself a little in this moment. The look on Cullen's face... Maker, he looks like he's halfway to being in love with Carver already. Maybe they shouldn't do this at all. Just keep things friendly and non-sexual. But he tries to explain again. "You've seen how I am with Anders? I took up with him because he's Anchorate; he knows that's how it's got to be for me and _everyone_. Void, you already told me the Templars talk smack about Anchorate 'proclivities.' This is _why_ we're like that. Even when we want to settle, just one biotic and one anchor, we can't. Until the Alliance stops letting the Chantry say biotics are alien poison and stuff like that, the shortage of anchors will continue. I'm needed."

     Cullen tilts his head, puzzled. "Forgive me, but I do not understand. You said that you were anchor to your sister for years."

     Shit. Carver sighs. "Yeah. Bethy and I were locked. Happened when we were kids, before we knew any better, and really before anyone knew how to _keep_ twins from locking. S'why we went to the Alliance, not the Anchorate, once we were grown up." If he concentrates on Cullen's belly, he can say the next thing without hurting. "The lock broke at Ostagar, though. She -- she died. Maybe those Collector fuckers brought her back, but that's the only thing that can break it, see. Death." He swallows. "Went back to the Anchorate after that."

     Cullen's hand comes up to touch Carver's shoulder -- but then he pauses, because of his aura. He lets his hand drop. Carver almost wishes he hadn't.

     "You're a good man," Cullen says. "Anchorate or not, it's a noble thing that you do. I..." He falters, then pushes on. "I no longer know if -- no. I still oppose what the Anchorate does, but... What the Templars do is not right. I'm not certain I will ever believe that biotics aren't alien to humankind, and dangerous, but... We must find another way. What, I do not know."

     This is a _monumental_ admission from him, and Carver stares, his mouth falling open. Bloody Anders was right. Carver can't believe it.

     Cullen sees this and laughs, more than a little bitterly. "How awful I must have been, that you stare so. But I will not deny the truth simply out of habit." He frowns a little, then looks hard at Carver. "But by the same token... It troubles me that you are forced by circumstance to do something that does not suit you, Hawke. Carver." He blushes a little at the new intimacy. Carver does too, though he feels foolish about it. It's just a bloke saying his name. Shouldn't matter that his voice is velvet, and that his mouth caresses the syllables. That's just the fucking resonance making Carver like every sodding thing he does.

     "Never said it didn't suit me," Carver says, more lightly than he's feeling. "I do _like_ having blokes and ladies all over the galaxy. Even got a turian fellow on Omega. Can't get with him often, though. Chafing." He grimaces, then sighs and finally takes his hand away from Cullen's midriff. "There, now."

     Cullen glances down, letting his aura wisp away. Once the blue light is gone, it's clear that the injury is, too. Inhaling, Cullen twists from one side to another, gingerly. "Maker's Breath. Biotics can heal?"

     "With an anchor's help, yeah." Carver grins up at him. "That's the one thing that we've got on the asari. They need centuries to learn how to do this, and only a few matriarchs ever do. Good anchors can learn it in a few years."

     Cullen's looking at him with a kind of intensity that ought to be unnerving, given that he's turned out to be a vanguard. "You're good for me, then."

     Carver squirms. "Well, yeah. I'm your anchor."

     "You are my knight," Cullen murmurs.

     "Wha -- " But Cullen's reached up to draw a thumb across his lips.

     "You never answered my question in the corridor," Cullen says. Something's changed. Carver doesn't know what, but all of a sudden he can't look away from Cullen. He has to swallow to speak.

     "Question?" He almost stammers the word. Almost.

     "I asked then what more you would have of me." Cullen's thumb presses a little against Carver's lips, suggestive. "We were interrupted, however, and you did not answer. I beg you to tell me now, and speak plainly."

     _Still talks like a sodding knight of old_ , Carver thinks idly... but he can't deny it's hot. Plain, though. Right. "Sex," Carver says. Maker, he's actually nervous; he licks his lips. "I want sex, Cull. No biotics. We won't resonate if it's just... skin. No feelings. No strings. Either of us wants to walk away, just say so and it's done." He swallows again. "Til then, though... fuck me whenever I want. Maybe whenever _you_ want. I mean, assuming we're both up for it."

     There's a high, hungry gleam in Cullen's gaze that's Carver's answer, no matter what Cullen says next. But then he gets to his feet. Carver's still on his knees, and it's entirely too easy to like this position. Easy to notice the lump in Cullen's fatigue pants that might be just a fold of the cloth, or might be something else. Can't reach for it, though. Got to see what Cullen says to the offer.

     "I will never _not_ want more," Cullen says. His voice is soft, but his gaze never wavers. He doesn't blink. Locked on, like a good vanguard. Locked. "I'm... a possessive man. But I can provide what you ask." He holds out his hand for Carver to take.

     Carver grins and licks his lips. "Figured you could." That intriguing lump is right there, but Cullen looks like he's got something else in mind. Carver takes the hand, lets Cullen pull him up. "So what've you got for me now, then?"

     Cullen immediately pulls him close and yanks open his bodysuit. It's a molecular zipper, meant to be opened this way -- just grab the material up on either side and apply pressure -- but the decisiveness of the yank, the roughness of it, sends a sharp thrill through Carver. But then, he noticed this in the corridor, right? When Cullen knows he's invited, he doesn't dither. He takes charge.

     "I've an hour until Agatha expects me to relieve her," Cullen says. His voice is rough. As he says it, he's peeling Carver out of the spaceproof cloth. "One hour of sex, then, for now."

     "For now?" Carver laughs a little, shaky with want. A solid hour. If it's boasting, it's the kind of boasting Carver likes. He grins even as he lifts his arms to facilitate being stripped. Cullen comes after his grin, kissing him into sober astonishment. Maker, if he thought the kiss in the corridor was perfect, this one is even better -- fierce, hard, thirsty, and at the end of it Cullen even bites Carver's bottom lip a little, which goes straight to Carver's dick. Cullen's hand chases it down, sliding along the seam of his bodysuit to open it further as it goes, then slipping underneath to find Carver's cock and give it a firm, not-remotely-virginal stroke.

     "Holy fucking shit," Carver gasps. Cullen smiles and takes hold of him then, turning them around so that Carver's butt comes up hard against the kitchen counter. Cullen licks his lips and gets a better grip --

     And then. And fucking _then_.

     Cullen's comm bleeps. Carver's close enough to hear it. Cullen freezes; Carver all but sees him calculating whether he can ignore it. But the bleep comes again. Of course it bloody does.

     "Must be sodding _kidding_ me," Carver groans.

     Cullen lets out a harsh sigh of agreement -- but he's a good, responsible officer, so finally he activates it. He stays pressed up against Carver while he does it, though, free hand still idly working Carver's cock, which is fucking beautiful. "Rutherford here."

     "Sorry, Commander," Agatha says. She sounds strained. "But we've had a comm from the pirates. Something's happened to the captain."

     Cullen's hand goes still. "Anders? What of him? Was he attacked?" Now Carver straightens, frowning too; Cullen meets his eyes in concern.

     "No, but it's bad. The pirates found him unconscious, after he apparently broke into some kind of secure facility within _the Illusive Woman_." Carver's heart seizes.

     Cullen has already moved away from Carver, starting for the door. Carver catches his arm quickly -- the fool's forgotten the twenty-meter radius. So instead Cullen waits impatiently while Carver slaps on his armor as fast as he can. While Carver does so, Cullen demands of Agatha, "Unconscious? Are the medics on their way? Are we -- "

     "They've got people on him, ser," Agatha says. "And for right now, you're the only one who knows what's happened. I haven't notified Med Bay."

     "What? Why -- "

     In answer, Agatha transmits a video to the room's screen. Carver pauses in the middle of aligning his abdominal plates to stare, then, at a flickering image. In what is clearly some kind of special cargo hold, Anders, suffused with green light, floats in the air. It isn't biotics that has him, it's a beam that's going straight toward his head. The beam flickers now and again with... glyphs? Images? It's too quick to tell.

     But two things register on Carver, just before the image flickers and cuts out entirely. First, that the expression on Anders' face is one of pure agony -- and his eyes, for some reason, have gone glowing white.

     And second? The device that's got him suspended, beaming Maker-knows-what into his brain?

     Is a Prothean beacon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks who don't know Mass Effect, just understand that the Prothean beacon is a big deal.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Got busy. But like I said, I'm not done with this one; it's just that it's going to take so much time to finish that I keep prioritizing shorter projects over it. Got a quiet period for the next few weeks, tho, so will do as much as I can in that time.

     Anders looks old.  On the white bed of the pirates' infirmary -- better-appointed than that of the _Justice_ \-- he lies still and unpleasantly pale, breathing so slowly that Cullen has to forego blinking for quite some time in order to discern it.  His blond hair has come loose from its trademark ponytail, and for the first time Cullen notices that it's thinning.  Anders _isn't_ old; he's only halfway through his forties.  He just looks older, right now.

     "Fascinating things are happening in this human's brain," says the doctor, a salarian who talks faster than usual for one of his kind.  Cullen needs a moment after every sentence to parse what the fellow is saying.  "Simply fascinating!  We should have tried the beacons on biotics sooner."

     Isabela, who seems anything but upset about Anders' attempt to steal one of her secrets, throws the doctor a wry look.  "No experiments without my permission," she says.  She's smiling, but her tone is firm.  "And for the time being, let's just wait to see whether our current guinea pig survives the process, shall we?"

     "'Bela," chides Merrill, who is delicately perched on another of the infirmary's beds.  It's the first time they've seen her since Isabela laid claim to the _Justice_.  She seems none the worse for wear, apart from a livid bite-mark high on her neck, which would make Cullen blush if not for the circumstances.  She's also wearing a lovely set of custom white-and-gold ceramic armor, perfectly fitted to her slim frame and an obvious token of her pirate queen's affection.

     Isabela is unrepentant.  "What?  It has to be said."

     Cullen's belly tightens at the idea that Anders might not survive.  He has never trusted the man, never quite gotten along with him... but it surprises him now to realize he _likes_ Anders, in spite of everything.  Losing his steadying good humor and cleverness is a blow, especially at a time when the _Justice_ needs such leadership more than ever.

     "Just doeesn't make any sodding _sense_ ," Carver says for the third time.  He's on the other side of Anders' bed, and belatedly Cullen reminds himself that Carver has been Anders' lover; Cullen is not the only one unmoored in this moment.  Carver doesn't look unmoored, though.  Just angry.  "What the Void was he doing trying to _interface_ with the fucking thing?  Every species tries the beacons when they find 'em, and every species ends up with a lot of brain-scrambled people as a result.  Anders _knows_ better."

     "He doesn't appear to have had a choice," Isabela says, lifting her omni-tool and sending the recording to the nearest monitor.  They all gather around the wall to watch as, on the small screen, Anders slips furtively into a small dark space -- the cargo hold where the beacon was being held.  But almost as soon as the door shuts, he stiffens, and is dragged backward, turned, and lifted into the air.  He visibly struggles against whatever force field has him in its grip, and it is equally visible that his struggles are ineffective.  Isabela freezes the recording here, thankfully, so that they don't have to see Anders' agonized expression again.  In the frozen image, Anders looks alarmed, and not yet frightened.  That helps a little.

     "The beacon hasn't responded like that to anyone else who's gone into that room," the salarian doctor says, folding his long arms.  "No beacon has ever done _anything_ like this.  We actually thought this one might be irreparably damaged until now."

     "They wouldn't have had it if it was broken," Isabela says, folding her arms.

     Cullen lifts his eyes.  Yes.  Now here is the crux of the matter.  "They."

     Isabela hesitates.  There's no one in the infirmary except her and Merrill, Carver and Cullen, and the doctor -- and Anders.  Still, she sighs and then taps a sequence on her omni-tool that causes a faint bleep to sound throughout the room.  A security screen against listening devices.

     When that's done, she sighs.  "We found the beacon aboard the Collector ship."

     Carver stiffens and whirls to face her, mute with shock.  Cullen sets his jaw.  "I see," he snaps.  "So when your people boarded the ship and saw the surviving Kanisa colonists trapped inside pods, you left them there and searched for booty instead -- "

     "And my _sister_ ," Carver snarls, his fury unfurling with sudden, irrational, intensity.  Cullen is suddenly glad that Carver isn't a biotic himself.  "You could've rescued Bethany -- "

     "We didn't see her," Isabela says primly.  And then she eyes Cullen, her voice going cold.  "And yes.  Given a choice between trying to extract people we didn't know from alien technology -- which might kill them -- and taking something we at least knew might hold intelligence value, we opted for the latter.  We won't beat these creatures by being sentimental or foolish.  We must be ruthless.  I don't care what that makes you think of me."

     Cullen flinches.  She is right, of course, but he hates that she is.  "Neither will we win," he says, taking great care to enunciate each syllable, "by forgetting that we are human."

     "All of us?" Isabella asks.  She has reached out to stroke Anders' forehead.  It is a curiously tender gesture, Cullen thinks, even as he reacts in confusion to her question.

     "What?"

     "I simply asked, do you consider all of us to be equally human?"  She lifts her eyes to meet his, and he nearly flinches at the steel in them.  "I ask this because hearing 'we're all humans here' from a devout Andrastean _Templar_ strikes me as the very height of irony, in this moment."

     Cullen stiffens.  "Templars _protect_ humankind."

     "By treating some of its members as second-class citizens."  She leans across Anders, abruptly getting into Cullen's space, and it takes everything he has not to pull back.  She is furious, she is deadly, the _Justice_ is completely within her power, and all at once Cullen is savagely aware of this.  "My Merrill was terrified of you, she told me, when you discovered her.  She thought you would kill her, for being what she is.  Have you truly changed, Templar, now that you're a biotic?  Or are you merely hiding your true self until you're stable enough to shed your anchor?  The anchor from whom _you asked me to free you_."

     At this, Cullen does twitch back, but it is pure shame.  It has been only days since that conversation... but so much has changed in that time.  Guiltily, he looks at Hawke, and his belly clenches as he sees Hawke watching them, a tight grimace on his face.  And Cullen feels his sorrow and resignation, which is worse than anything Isabela has said.  Carver _believes_ Isabela.  He is not at all surprised to hear that Cullen asked to be rid of him.  To Carver, Cullen is still a Templar at heart.

     And is he not?  Cullen has to look away from Hawke's gaze as Meredith's words sear his mind, and the guilt twists within him.  _Seduce him_.  She did not mean it literally, but --

     Merrill sighs and hops down from the bed, padding over to Isabela to take her arm.  "'Bela.  Please.  He _didn't_ hurt me, I told you."

     "And that is the only reason he's still alive, Kitten."  Isabela's fury is implacable, and... and Cullen cannot deny that he deserves every iota of it.

     Silence falls in the medbay, but for the steady beeping of instruments.  Cullen bears it because he can do nothing else.  Until Carver sighs, loudly, and steps forward.

     "No sodding point to this," he says.  It's mostly to Isabela, but a little bit to all of them.  "Cull can't help what he was.  Maybe he'll change what he is now, maybe not.  But none of us are gonna get much of anywhere if we can't find a way to work together."

     Isabela's lips twitch, though she is still glaring daggers.  "Puppy, you're a fool to trust a wolf of the Chantry.  However prettily he might heel and lick your face in the moment."

     "Never said anything about trust," Carver snaps, and the hard truth of it hurts Cullen to hear, so much.  "But we don't have choices about some things.  I'm gonna make the best of it."  Then he turns to Cullen.  "You're the _Justice_ 's captain 'til Anders is up again.  So what now?"

     Maker.  Cullen takes a deep breath to steady himself, and finds that it helps not one whit.  "My duty is clear," he says.  "I will follow Anders' last orders.  He has allied with you, madam, so I will serve as you require."  He says this to Isabela, and hopes that he sounds dignified as he does so.

     "How generous of you," she says.  Merrill touches her arm, though, and she sighs, softening a little.  "Did Anders tell you why he suddenly decided to put his nose into my business?"

     "I knew nothing of this.  Neither that you had a beacon, nor that he'd discovered it and meant to..."  But here Cullen falters, because he doesn't know _what_ Anders meant to do with the thing.

     "That room was shielded nine ways to Satinalia," Isabela says, looking at Anders with high annoyance.  "Scanning it should've shown only a void.  Most likely he went in there to find out what was inside -- so serves him right that it did this to him.  Though I'd rather he survive, if for no reason other than that I now want very badly to yell at him."  She shakes her head and straightens, eying the salarian doctor.  "Your prognosis?"

     The doctor shrugs his narrow shoulders.  "A massive amount of information has been uploaded into this man's brain," he says.  "It's foreign to human brain function, so he's rejecting it.  This is what happens in ninety-nine percent of cases when an individual interacts with a beacon, and the result is usually fatal.  The survivors end up as vegetables.  However -- "  The salarian folds his arms, looking excited.  "He's also _processing_ it, somehow.  Something in his mind is actually coping with the information overload!  I can literally watch new synapses being generated in his brain by the moment.  I don't understand how, but if he can keep it up, it gives him a chance of surviving."

     Cullen stares down at Anders in quiet astonishment.  "Biotics can be used to heal," he muses.  "Though -- "  He eyes Hawke.

     "Yeah, they need an anchor's help to do it, and Anders is unanchored.  He's always been weird, but this takes the cake."  Carver sighs and rubs a hand over his hair.  "The Bull's gonna love this."

     Isabela sighs as well, then shakes her head.  "Well, nothing to be done for him now.  In the meantime, did Anders brief you on our next task?  I mean to pay a visit to some old friends on the planet we'll be orbiting in a few hours; there's a pirate base there.  And I'd like you, Acting Captain, to accompany me."

     Cullen sighs.  "He did mention something to that effect.  I suppose I must be your prize to display in his stead.  I shall endeavor to live up to it."

     "See that you do," she drawls, plainly amused by his reluctance.  "In fact..."  She taps her fingers against her lips, thoughtful, as her eyes rove over him.  Cullen frowns in unease as she smiles.  "It won't do to have you in armor, Rutherford.  You look like a threat, not an ornament to my prowess and cleverness."

     Cullen stiffens, then reminds himself that Isabela is something of a bully, and the more he visibly resents her demands, the more outrageous they will become.  So he takes a deep breath, and asks himself, _What would Anders say?_   "Shall I appear naked in pasties, then?"

     It's out before he can think too much about it.  Carver's head whips around; he stares at Cullen, then snorts laughter.  Cullen feels his face heat.  Isabela's mouth falls open, and then she bites her lips to fight a smile.  Merrill is less circumspect, covering her mouth and giggling loudly.

     "Not that I wouldn't pay a shipweight in credits to see that," Isabela drawls at last, "but I suspect that's a privilege you'd best reserve for your anchor, if I don't miss my guess about where things have headed between you lately."  She eyes Carver, and now it is his turn to flush.  Which of course reminds Cullen of the hour before, and the taste of Carver's soft mouth, and the feel of his hard cock, and --

     -- and Carver is thinking of much the same, Cullen can sense, and guess by the way Carver has glanced at him through his lashes.  They will get nothing done between them if this keeps up, so Cullen clears his throat and focuses on Isabela.  "Dress blues, then?"

     "Ah; that's a lovely idea.  Please meet me down in the shuttle bay in half an hour, then, polished and pretty."  She hesitates, then adds, "And bring a few of your people, just in case.  _They_ can wear armor.  Not that I don't trust my fellow pirates -- " She snorts and rolls her eyes even as she says this.  "But no sense in being reckless."

     Cullen inclines his head in ironic acceptance, and then he and Carver head out.

#

     There's no time for a resumption of the interrupted festivities between them, and in any case Anders' injury is not exactly conducive to romance.  Not that _romance_ is what they were up to, given Carver's admonitions -- but Cullen dislikes the bare particulars of the thing, however convenient they might be.  Now that the heat of the moment has faded, he is more than a little appalled with himself.  He _cannot_ want more of this Anchorate terrorist, after all, because what possible good could come of it?  But...

     It bothers him too much to think about, so he nods to Hawke and heads to his room to change into his dress uniform without speaking, and refuses to call that a retreat.

     At the hangar bay, where the pirates have prepared an armed shuttle to travel to the planet, Isabela (herself in light armor that reveals a remarkable amount of skin) looks him up and down and whistles.  Cullen tries to fight the blush that threatens to cover his face -- and he fails utterly when Hawke catches his eye for a moment.  He doesn't smile, thank the Maker, but there's a definite look of appreciation weighing his gaze before he turns away.  This does nothing useful for Cullen's self control, and he can only be grateful to some unknown designer that the jacket of Alliance dress blues hangs low enough to cover the crotch.

     Then they are off:  Isabela, Merrill, and a small entourage of her pirates, the lattermost armed to the teeth; and Cullen and Carver, accompanied by three ensigns of the _Justice_.  The extra-large shuttle has a stealth mode and heated seats, to Cullen's astonishment -- but then it's long been clear that the pirate life is better-capitalized than the Alliance military.  All seems well.  But then Isabela frowns and stalks toward the cockpit.  "What is it?"

     Isabela's pilot, a frail-looking young man who has an acid tongue and is the best pilot Cullen's ever seen, jumps.  "How the hell _do_ you do that?  It's like you're reading my mind."

     "Your shoulders, actually.  You tense up whenever something bothers you.  It's why I keep cleaning you out in poker."  She folds her arms.  "Report."

     "Nothing to report," he says, shrugging.  But Cullen sees it, too.  His shoulders don't go all the way back down after the shrug.  "Ground control at the base replied as if everything was fine.  But..."

     Cullen steps forward as well.  "But?"  Isabela eyes him, but does not object.  The young man grimaces at having caught Cullen's attention.

     "It just feels off," he says at last.  "The ident code checks out, but it's old.  They should've changed it since our last visit.  Not the first time they've been lazy about security, but...  And the ground officer sounded... I don't know.  Here."

     He replays audio of the exchange.  There is the pilot's voice, brisk but jokey; he's done such things hundreds of times.  But the ground officer's reply is terse, flat.  "Acknowledged.  Instruct your crew that weapons are not permitted on-station.  Proceed to bay thirty-four." 

     "He might as well be reading from a teleprompter," Isabela says, thoughtful.

     "Synthesized."  Carver isn't bothering with doubt.  Cullen sees him draw his pistol and activate incendiary ammunition.  "Like they took bits of his speech and strung them together.  Something's fucking wrong."

     Isabela sighs, but draws one of her omni-knives.  "I'm inclined to agree."  She eyes Merrill and Cullen.  "You two are our trump cards, understood?  A haemabiotic and a Class Five are very large guns, and I don't want to bring either of you into play unless it is absolutely necessary.  But be ready."

     "Of course," says Merrill.

     Cullen does not like that, at all.  "Pardon me," he says to Isabela, hearing the edge in his own voice.  "But why are we landing, if we know something isn't right?"

     "First because I say so," Isabela replies, giving him a hard look to remind him that he isn't in charge.  He stifles a retort; now is not the time.  "Second because, if this isn't really a problem, then I'll look like a paranoid fool for turning tail, and that will do me nearly as much damage as being defeated in battle.  My enemies will think I'm easily spooked."  She sighs.  "Third because, if something's wrong, the only way we're going to find out what is to investigate."

     "Yeah, that's just what I love to hear," the pilot mutters.

     "Now, now, Moreau."  Isabela pats his shoulder.  "You laugh in the face of danger, don't you?  I recall you saying that, once, during one of your rants."

     "Uh, I was drunk, ma'am?  You don't listen to me when I'm sober, but you hold me to what I say after five drinks?  That is just so you."

     She snorts.  But her look is serious as she leans down to watch the shuttle's flight path.

     Everything looks fine as they go in.  The landing pad is clear, and there are no signs of battle.  But there's no one around, and once the shuttle settles, no one comes to greet them.  Comm chatter is silent, except for another terse bit of audio.  "Proceed without weapons through the door to the west."

     "We'll proceed _with_ weapons, thank you," Isabela replies.  But the ground officer does not reply.

     "So, odds on whether they'll snipe us, or just blow us up with anti-shuttle missiles," Moreau says.  "Ten credits says snipers."

     "I'd be able to shunt off a missile strike," Merrill says, helpfully.  "Haemabiotics are lovely against kinetic weapons."

     "Oh, good, bullet to the head, then, thanks Merrill."

     "Take care while we're gone," Isabela says to him, and then she opens the door.

     There are neither snipers nor missile crews to greet them.  No one approaches them, either, as they edge toward the west door.  Isabela's still playing visiting pirate queen, perhaps in case all of this is an elaborate ruse, but Cullen can see the tension in her, and the narrowed shift of her eyes checking all quarters.  "I have a bad feeling about this," Carver says.  Cullen feels this -- and his lack of armor -- with hearty agreement.

     Of course Carver notices his unease, however.  "We never practiced barriers," he murmurs as they walk, "but now's a capital time.  Easy when you're feeling nervous and a little naked."  He puts a hand on Cullen's shoulder.  "There, just unlocked you.  Instinct ought to -- "  Before he finishes the word, a sheath of glimmering blue energy forms around Cullen.  Carver snorts in amusement.  "Well, there you go."

     Cullen twitches a little as the barrier forms.  Once again, his biotics ache to sheathe Carver as well.  They do engulf Carver's hand, where it rests on Cullen's shoulder, but the itch to spread down Carver's arm, to _protect_ him, is almost overwhelming.  The frustration of it makes him sound irritated when he speaks.  "Must you always touch me, to make my power work?"  He looks pointedly at Isabela and Merrill, who move down the corridor ahead.  Merrill is aglow with the peculiar deep blue, faintly purple glimmer of her exotic biotics.  Isabela's watching the corners and her heads-up display.  They're standing a good ten feet apart.

     "Those two are locked, remember," Carver says.  "And because of it, 'Bela can support Merrill anywhere in the bloody galaxy.  But remember what else that means."

     "Ah, yes."  And Cullen finds himself grimacing at the reminder, though not for the reasons he knows he should.  Intellectually, the idea of being resonance locked with Hawke is horrifying.  To be utterly dependant on another person for six months is bad enough, but for life?  Though Cullen's feelings toward him have become a morass of conflict, Hawke is still Hawke:  still uncouth, still unrepentant about the Anchorate's terrorism, still a heretic.  At the same time, however...  Cullen cannot deny that it feels good, right now, to have the gentle thrum of Hawke's anchoring presence nearby.  As tense as he is, he isn't really afraid, because he isn't alone.  He has not felt alone since Hawke took up with him.  He... doesn't know what to feel, about that.

     Hawke squeezes his shoulder, making him jump.  "We're good.  It's awkward for now, sure, but at the rate you're going, you'll start being able to direct your own biotics without my help in probably a week or two.  I'll still need to stay in range, but you won't need me hanging off you to make things work.  We can practice that later, if you want.  Might hurry things along."

     Yes.  He wants to hurry up and be rid of Hawke.  His stomach clenches at the thought of Hawke leaving him in six months.  He wants Hawke gone, he wants Hawke closer.  It is maddening.  Cullen murmurs something noncommittal, and hopes that this will sound like concern about the silence of the pirate base rather than the confusion that it actually represents.

     It's clearer than ever that something is wrong, once they get out of the hangar bay and into the corridors of the base.  It's a standard shake-and-bake colony, several dozen large-scale prefab units tacked together to form a facility that's maybe the size of a small town.  It _was_ a small town in its way, Cullen registers as they move into a large open area and pass a small, dirty booth marked CURRENCY EXCHANGE.  There are a number of other prefab booths beyond it which form what clearly was once a thriving marketplace.  Goods on order include liquor, clothing, ration packs, more exotic foodstuffs, and of course weapons.  It's all empty now, however.  The goods are still about, the cash kiosks unmolested.  No sellers, no buyers.  No people at all.

     None _living_ , in any case.  Isabela pauses for a moment, fingering a black-burned streak down one of the booths' walls.  Some kind of energy weapons fire; nothing Cullen has seen in military use.  "Still warm," she murmurs softly.

     "No Alliance weapon does that," Carver replies, also keeping his voice low.  "Ship to ship lasers, sure, but in ground combat, projectiles are more effective."

     " _The Alliance_ hasn't been taking over pirate bands," Isabela replies grimly.

     And Cullen inhales as he remembers the fight in the _Justice's_ cargo bay.  The horrible insectoid creatures with Carver's sister.  Their guns fired steady beams that had disintegrated anything they touched.  _Anyone_ they touched.

     "Oh, Creators," Merrill murmurs in quiet horror.  "That's why there're no bodies.  They were..."

     Before she can finish, a hollow, scraping screech echoes through the halls, from somewhere deep within the facility.  It isn't human.  It doesn't sound like any animal they've ever heard of, though, either.  The sound makes all the hairs on Cullen's body stand up, and Carver curse.  Then it's gone, though its echo lingers for a moment.  And then, from somewhere closer by, they hear another screech, in apparent answer.

     They all look at each other, silent, eyes wide.

     Isabela shakes her head, her expression hardening.  "This is feeling entirely too much like folly.  I suggest we retreat to the shuttle.  And by 'suggest,' I mean let's go."

     She doesn't have to say it twice.  They pivot, and move double-time back toward the hangar bay.  But before they can get more than a few steps, something lumbers out of a side corridor, cutting off their route.

     It's naked.  It glows, all over, with the same sickly yellow-greenish light that Cullen has had nightmares about for days.  At least eight feet tall but brutally thin, its limbs so long that they seem stretched, attenuated.  Its belly is grotesquely swollen in what might be malnutrition or a parody of pregnancy, but studded all over with those awful glowing pluglike implants Cullen saw on the creatures at Kanisa.  Because of the belly he thinks at first that the creature he sees is female, though its chest is flat, and when it turns he sees male genitalia below the belly, small and atrophied.  Its head is too large for its neck.  Something has distorted its once-humanoid features; its mouth is too wide, teeth too large, eyes great gelid orbs taking up half its face.  Ears as attenuated as a rabbit's, though distorted and sharp-tipped, flare from either side of its head --

     -- and Merrill claps both hands over her mouth, uttering a little cry.  "No!" she whispers behind those hands.  "No, no, I can't bear it!"  And then she lapses into a string of elvhen that Cullen's translator cannot parse, since Chantry protocols have declared it a heathen tongue and thus forbidden.

     But that's what tells Cullen what he's seeing.  This creature, which is twice their height and so deformed that it no longer resembles its original species in any recognizable way other than those stretched, twisted ears, was once an _elf_.

      And then Isabela curses swiftly.  They turn to see another of the creatures emerging from a different corridor.  This one is distorted in the same way -- huge belly, attenuated limbs -- but it has graying breasts and a flaring crown of nightmarish tendrils about its head.  Asari, Cullen thinks in revulsion.  Someone has torn loose the tendrils from an asari's head, stretched them out, and done Maker knows what to the mind underneath, because the creature fixes a gaze on them that is equal parts mindless and malicious.  And hungry.

     Isabela curses and flings a monomolecular knife palmed from her boot, which sinks into the middle of the elvhen creature's forehead up to the hilt.  It staggers, screams, but does not go down.  That's enough, however, for Merrill to fling what looks like a seething ball of pure force at the thing, which flings it aside.  It's still moving, climbing to its feet -- but the way back to the hangar is clear.  "Move!" Isabela shouts, and they move.

     But before they have run three steps, there is a strange hollow clap of sound, and suddenly the asari creature appears right in front of them.  Grinning.

     "What the fuck -- " Carver shouts.  One of Isabela's pirates reacts faster, hefting an assault rifle to start shooting at the creature.  The bullets strike, but Cullen can see how muted the impacts are, as a shimmering aura -- not a barrier, more powerful -- glimmers around the creature.  The other pirates heft weapons too, and Cullen calls to his men, "Suppressing fire, now -- "

     But it is too late.  The elvhen creature has gotten up in the meantime, and all of a sudden one of its clawed hands comes ravening out of Corporal Hicks' chest.  He screams, looking down in horror for a fleeting instant before death claims him, and the creature flings the corpse aside before grinning at them... and teleporting as well.  This time it appears right in front of Hicks' fellow corporal, and grabs her by the throat while she screams.

     And while they have stared at this nightmare, the asari creature has crouched, skeletal shoulders bowing, before opening its mouth to utter one of those unearthly screams they heard before.  Up close the sound is ten thousand times worse:  an unearthly mingling of asari agony and the insane joy of _something else_ that is wearing her body like a mangled glove.  But the aura around her is rising higher, glowing brighter, and Cullen opens his mouth to shout a warning.

     Carver jerks at his shoulder, and Cullen feels his biotics leap at the touch of Carver's will.  "Cull, throw a singu -- "

     A wave of force explodes outward from the asari creature, catching everyone nearby and flinging them back.  Cullen has only a moment to see the elvhen creature, much faster than its asari companion, leap onto one of the pirates and start rending her limb from limb while it shrieks; then he is flying, the world tumbling.  Without the benefit of armor, he lands with enough force that for an instant he grays out.  Then he blinks and sees:

     Isabela has grabbed one of her fallen men's rifles and is plowing a steady stream of projectiles into the asari creature.  It's actually having some kind of effect, since the creature has stopped jumping about.  Two of the pirates are still standing, one of them helping Isabela with the asari, the other helping Merrill and Cullen's last remaining man with the elvhen.  Merrill has trapped the creature in some kind of biotic bubble that is draining its energy away; it's sagged to its knees, trying to push itself up.  She's weeping while she does it, but there is no mercy in her hands, thank the Maker.

     Shaking his head to clear it, Cullen pushes himself up slowly, grimacing as he feels dozens of incipient bruises make themselves known.  "Hawke?"

     There.  Cullen blinks as he realizes Hawke is several feet away; the man lies sprawled, semiconscious, in the next room where he's slid through the open doorway.  Cullen tries to push himself up and fails, then tries again.  Beyond them, one of the pirates has begun to scream, low and unceasingly.  Cullen can't see what's being done to him, but it sounds horrific enough that he prays swiftly for the Maker to send the man to a swift death.  "Hawke, get up.  We h-have to help..."

     Then he looks beyond Hawke, and realizes someone else is in that room.

     Bethany Hawke.

     She walks out of the dark slowly, not glowing this time.  At once Cullen notices the similarities between her and Hawke, which he had not been able to ascertain at their last meeting.  She is smaller than her brother, more daintily built, but just as dark-and-pale, with a face as square and stubborn, though on her this is softer.  Her eyes are as brown as his are blue -- vivid, almost aglow from within, quite apart from whatever her biotics do to her.  She's beautiful.  Human.  Aware, this time.

     Carver pushes himself up on one elbow, groggy -- but then he sees her.  "B-Bethy?"  Cullen can hear the shock and confusion in his voice.  "Bethy, is it... you?"

     "Of course it's me, silly," she says, and smiles.  It's everything a sister's smile should hold for the brother she lost ten years before, full of warmth and tenderness and regret.

     "Oh," Carver breathes.  Cullen shudders with the flood of relief and joy and love, sweet Maker, that surges through Carver in this moment.  "Oh, I knew you were still in there, I knew it, Bethy, Maker's Breath..."

     She's closer.  And now Cullen sees again the strange implants on and entering her body, and the armor she wears, which is of a slick, chintinous, almost organic substance, and he knows, he _knows_ , it this all a ruse --

     Bethany glances up.  She smiles at Cullen, and there is nothing even remotely resembling warmth in this. 

     A moment later, just before she reaches Carver, the door between them slams shut.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~dramatic cliffhanger music~~


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, for anyone wondering, I hated that the Banshees in ME were only female, so decided to combine them with the Shrieks of Dragon Age, who appear to be only male. Equality!

     It's Bethany.  It's his fucking sister.  It's _Bethany_.

     Here.  Normal again, not covered in biotic energy that's the wrong color -- the wrong wavelength -- and makes Carver's skin crawl.  She _remembers_ him; he can see that in her face at last as she comes toward him, opening her arms.  He knew it.  The real her wasn't dead, just sleeping, or something.  Now she's awake, and she can be his Bethy again.

     Everything in Carver that feels, that needs, everything he's kept on lockdown or at least limited work-release for ten sodding years, comes apart in this moment.  He is raw inside as he stares at her through tears.  "M-missed you," he makes himself say, because otherwise he's just staring at her like a lump and bawling like a child.  He struggles to push himself up, but he's still weak from the creature's shockwave and can only make it to his knees, lopsided.  He wants to say more.  _I've been a shadow without you, half a person, I don't know what they did to you but for me it was living in the Void, I didn't even know what loneliness was until you died._   But he can't manage that much, so he stammers, "I m-missed you, so... so fucking much..."

     (Distantly, as if in a dream, he hears someone banging on the door behind him, shouting his name through the titanium.  It doesn't matter.  Bethany.)

     "Missed you, too, Carv."  It's her old smile!  And she's dewy-eyed, too.  "I wanted to come find you years ago, but I couldn't.  You kept moving around."

     He shakes his head, hating himself anew.  "Helping other biotics," he says.  "But they were just... I didn't know if you were alive and I, I had to do something or I was going to fucking lose it -- "

     "Shhh, shhh."  Her hands cup his face.  They aren't as warm or soft as he remembers, but she's wearing gloves.  (Strange gloves, not like bodysuit material.  Rubbery, slick, slightly scratchy.  As if there are tiny bristly hairs all over the material.  He dismisses this.)  "Oh, Carver.  It's fine.  I've forgiven you already."

     He can't see for tears, and shakes his head.  She grips his face a little, holding him still.  "You have?"

     "Of course.  Why wouldn't I?  Whatever you did with those other biotics... It doesn't matter, Carver.  You helped them, I know, because that's the kind of man you are.  I'm so proud of you.  But... you're still mine, aren't you?"  Her hands slide back, down his neck, around.  He feels her fingertips caress his implant, like they've done a thousand times since they were children.  "These others who had you, they haven't taken good care of you.  They can't help you, can they?  Not like I could."  She leans down to kiss his forehead, the way she has ten thousand times before.

     (He feels a flare of biotics at his back -- wild, poorly-controlled, flailing all over the place.  Someone needs to practice.  Then this thought falls from his mind as if pushed.)

     "I can feel our old link," Bethany says, shutting her eyes.  "Like a ghost, but still there.  Remember what it felt like?"  Her fingers massage his scalp around the implant, and he shudders helplessly, his eyes fluttering shut. 

     "Y-yeah..."

     "Then don't you want it, again?  Carv.  They always told us it was wrong to be resonance locked.  But it was a lie." 

     "It was?"  He's only half listening.  Through his closed eyelids he sees brightening as her biotics light up.  Out of old habit he tries to reach for her with an anchor link, to resonate with her -- but something interferes, dragging on his implant, eating up most of its processing resources.  What?  He shakes his head in annoyance, but the drag does not go away.

     "Yes.  They said it was selfish.  But the Chantry calling anything selfish is the height of hypocrisy."  Her voice hardens in a way that makes Carver's frown deepen.  Bethany has always been the more devout of the two of them -- the voice of moderation, whenever Carver chafed against the Chantry's treatment of biotics.  When did this change?

     (Another flare behind him, and something makes the whole room shudder.  That same idiot biotic as before.  He really needs to fix his targeting, or find an anchor to help him, before he kills somebody by accident.)

     "They just want to control you, Carver.  But weren't we stronger together than apart?"  He can hear her smile, and he smiles too, his whole body aching with love for her.  "We were glorious."

     "Yeah.  We w-were."  They are, if Bethany is alive.  They can be, again, if they can just link up.  Carver reaches for her again, really trying this time.  Fuck!  What _is_ that?  He can't link to her with whatever that is dragging on him.  Irritated, he tries to shake it off, and the room shudders again, as if something has set off a minor earthquake around them.

     "Oh, Carver.  We still are."  She pulls his head to her belly.  (Hard things here.  Tubes and strange equipment, humming with unfamiliar circuitry.  He starts to pull back, but her hands stroke his shoulders, soothing, and he settles.)  "Good, that's good.  Now, Carver?"  Her power settles around him, too, enveloping him and pressing his arms tight against his sides, like a bear hug.  "Link with me again?  Please, brother.  Be mine."

     And he is hers.  He's found the source of the drain on his resources, too:  another link, to some other biotic.  Irrelevant.  (Something stirs in him at this.  A flare of fear.  Weird revulsion of what he's about to do... but he ignores both feelings.  Bethany is back.)

     He snaps the link.  Somewhere distant, unimportant, someone screams.

     Then he opens his eyes and looks up -- and freezes as he sees the gold-green chaos of Bethany's biotic aura.  It's like hate and sickness set aglow.  Frowning, he focuses on her face.  On her smile, which now is proud, smug, and cruel in a way that she never, ever was before.

     "Very good, Carv," she says, her hands tightening on his head, digging into the skin around his implant.  He is trapped in her hands.  "Now, let's begin."

     And all the Void lets loose, within him and without.

#

     Even knowing that it's coming -- because he could feel Carver trying to shake him loose from their link, as if Cullen is an unwanted parasite instead of a Class Five biotic whose mind will turn inside-out without Carver's help -- Cullen isn't prepared for the snapping of the anchor link.  How can he be?  One moment he's trying to use his biotics to batter through the door, and mostly succeeding in punching great holes in the walls around the door because he cannot seem to _aim_ any of it.  In the next moment, the world dissolves into a riot of colors and heaving and screams that are probably his own.

     "Shit!  Kitten -- "

     "I can't hold him, 'Bela, he's stronger than -- aah!"

     He hears the words just before he loses the ability to process sound, and their echo disintegrates into aural chaos.   _"Ela -- ant -- or -- me!"_  Then chittering.  But through all of the Void, he becomes suddenly and horrifically aware of a new sensation.  Pain, wild and white-hot, tearing down his spine and through every nerve, from the base of his neck.

     Not his own pain.  Carver's.

     Reason fumbles its way through the chaos in Cullen's mind.  _Carver_.  With his bloody sister.  And Maker, it feels like she's _killing_ him.

     Cullen's vision has dissolved into a cacophony of brightly-colored boiling things, but he knows it's an illusion.  Is that his hand?  Is that solid ground beneath his hand?  It prickles like a hedgehog, but maybe.  Groping forward -- and freezing for a moment as something like wind howls in his ear; he prays it isn't one of those creatures, its voice altered by his own maddened senses -- he feels more prickling to the right.  "C-Carver!" he cries, or tries to.  If he manages words, he can't tell.  But he was facing Carver's direction when all of this began, wasn't he?  Taking a deep breath, he wills himself to stand on his knees and speak.  Do his muscles obey?  He prays that they have.  "Release him, or by the Maker I will kill us all!"

     If Carver's monstrous sister responds, he can't hear it.  And then, because Carver's agony has grown to a grating dissonance, Cullen wills his biotics to save Carver.  They obey his instincts, supposedly, do they not?  He thinks of how it feels to envelop Carver in his aura, how it feels to _resonate_ with him -- and all at once the world lurches forward.  Did he do something?  He fights nausea.  Then something jolts his whole body.  He is _aware_ that it's his body, which is a marvel in itself.  He can feel his hands moving!  He sweeps them forward wildly and something occludes the movement.  Something is in his hands.  He clutches at it, knowing nothing better to do.

     " -- Rutherford, you have to -- "

     Merrill?  He shakes his head, despairing of ever comprehending her.  But something is different now.  He hurts, randomly.  No, not randomly.  This pain, this ache, is familiar.  _Mine,_ he thinks, suddenly, out of nowhere.  _Carver is mine_... _mine!_

     All at once, his mind spasms.  He cries out -- and then he can see.

     The chamber, once a storage room, is now a wreck.  Small, chittering bodies twitch all around him:  husks and what the crew have nicknamed genlocks, dead or dying.  Bethany Hawke is nowhere to be seen, and the walls are crazed with burn-marks, some of them still aflame.  The back of the chamber is a gaping, ragged hole, its edges smoking...

     But Carver lies sprawled across his lap.  Cullen's hands clutch his armor, tight as a deathgrip.

     "Maker's _balls_ ," Isabela snarls, peering over a crate at him.  "Have you done it?  Are you anchored again?"

     "I -- "  Cullen's voice breaks and his throat is raw.  He's been screaming.  "I think?  Yes?"

     He cannot be sure, because the room wavers around him with every breath, and he can feel the tenuousness of his grip on reality.  Beneath his hands, Carver is trembling violently, making small strained noises; Cullen can feel him breathing fast and shallowly.  Not unconscious, but so lost in himself that he might as well be.  And worse, Cullen can feel that they are linked again -- somehow -- but the connection is as shaky as an addict on red lyrium.  Carver is still flaring pain, but now it is a deep, awful burn inside him.  The link between them is a lifeline, but the rope is badly-frayed, ready to snap.

     Isabela, Merrill, and two of the other men creep out from cover.  Merrill is still aglow, her hands upraised as if she expects him to explode at any second.  Which, Cullen must concede, he might.

     He tries to get up, and struggles with Carver's weight.  Isabela barks an order and the two soldiers come to help, lifting Carver off of him.  The room tilts when they do, and Cullen gasps, "No!  I have to.  Contact."  He swallows and claps a hand onto Carver's leg.  The room steadies.  Then he grabs his way up Carver's body until he's managed his feet.  Standing, it's easier.  He's mostly all right, physically, just shaking in sympathy with Carver, and of course teetering on the brink of hyperdestructive madness.  The pirate who's lifting Carver curses and shies back when Cullen's biotics flare, but Cullen hangs onto Carver with a deathgrip.  "Give him to me!  I need to stay in contact.  Let me carry him b-back."

     The pirate blinks, then curses and helps Cullen get Carver onto his shoulders in a fireman's carry.  That's better.  And then Cullen shudders all over and this time cannot stop himself when his biotics surge and swallow Carver into a field of blue.

     All at once, however, Cullen knows this is the right thing to do.  He inhales as his strange new senses roam over Carver and send him information that he could not possibly have assessed with eyes or fingers.  "His implant," he says, looking around at his companions.

     Isabela has a gun trained on him.  Cullen blinks as he finally realizes this, though she must have had it there for some time now.  It makes sense.  Right now, he's far more of a danger to them than the creatures he sees dead in the room around and beyond them.  "What about his implant?" Isabela asks, warily.

     "Something's wrong, sh-she's done something to...  He's connected to me.  Just.  B-but it _hurts_ him to do so.  I need to -- "  Cullen twitches, wondering how he knows, but he does.  "I need to, to... tune him?"  He shakes his head, frustrated with the uselessness of words.  "I can help him, but I need quiet."  And nothing attacking them for a while.

     Isabela considers this for what feels like an eternity.  "You can't bring him on board the _Woman_ ," says her pirate, scowling.  "He's a sodding bomb waiting to go off -- "

     " _N-not_ if you let me help him!"  Cullen snarls at him.  It's partly fear.  If Isabela decides to leave them in this awful place, or kill them...

     Isabela looks at Merrill.  Merrill is gazing at Cullen with an intensity that speaks of senses other than her eyes at work.  "Their link is unstable," she says, "but the Commander's biotics are already working to repair the damage.  With enough time undisturbed... he's right.  He could do it."

     Isabela looks as if she would rather decide otherwise, but after a moment she sighs and nods and holsters her pistol.  "You nearly killed us all," she says to Cullen.  "Lose control again, and I'll end you.  Is that understood?"

     Maker.  How long ago was he pleading for Anders to do the same to him, after Kanisa?  It feels like forever, but it can't have been more than a week or so.  This time, though, it's not himself that he fears for.  "Understood."  He swallows.  "Th-thank you."

     She blinks, lifting an eyebrow a little in her surprise.  Then she shakes her head -- and turns to lead them out past the bodies of friends and foes.

#

     Bethany is gone.

     Bethany's gone, and Carver curls in the Void where she has left him, flensed and lost.  She has torn him open and left him here to die.  He is bleeding out, his mind a raw thing, clinging to Cullen only because he needs something to deathgrip while he dies.

     But something new touches him.  A warm blueness -- strong, healthy, determined, moving into the space that the hard yellow-green light tried to carve into him.  It dances along Carver's abused nerves and soothes them, slowly.  It gathers along his spine and warms the cold, bone-deep ache that has settled there.  Carver shudders all over with the sensation, but it's right.  He knows it's right.  Something in him is broken.  And this blueness is repairing it, re-knitting the spreading bits so that they become smooth and strong, sealing the tears, re-growing what's been cut short.  On one level Carver worries, because this blueness... too much of a good thing is always bad.  But...

     "You cannot die," the blue says, when he worries.  "How many lives have you saved, Hawke?  Far and apart from my own.  The galaxy is falling to the Void and you are a _good man_ , by the Maker.  We need good men."

     Such a noble, airy reason to live.  Carver finds it hard to care.  And he can feel the falseness of the words -- not that they aren't true, but that isn't why the warm blue wants him to live.  Carver can't abide any more falseness.  Not now.

     Somehow the blue senses this.  Something of it intensifies, and through clarifying senses Carver feels hands touch him and pull him close.  Someone else's forehead rests against his own, as if to drive a new thought home.

     "And... _I_ need you.  Hawke.  Carver.  When you fell today, I...  If it had just been the broken link, I would have known what to do.  If Isabela had not killed me, I would have found a way to do it myself.  I am a danger to everyone nearby.  But the thought of _you_ dying... I could not bear it.  I cannot."

     That's... interesting.  Carver tries to think through the haze of torn linkages and red, blinking warning messages circling his damaged mind.  He tries to reach out.  Cullen.  That's who the warm blue is; he rememebers names, now.  Cullen.  Something's wrong with Cullen and Carver can fix that, he's pretty sure.  A good anchor can fix anything.

     " _Stop_ whatever you're doing, for the Maker's sake.  I'm trying to keep this bloody implant from damaging your brain any more than it already has."

     Well, shit, then.  But Carver stops.

     Fingers stroke his spine, working their way up vertebra by vertebra.  As they do, nerves stop their helpless wild firing, muscles relax, and blessed coolness spreads through Carver's body.  It's familiar.  He knows what this is, and he smiles a little, at the memory.  The first time Bethany did it to him, they were maybe ten, and she kept complaining that Carver felt off.  She just needed to tune him a little...

     Bethany.  Her face alight as her hands tightened on his face, a smile of unutterable cruelty crossing her lips.  _And now that you've let him go, come back to me, Brother.  I have so many wonders to show you..._

     Carver arches, crying out and flailing before realizing, somehow, that that was a dream.  Not just a dream, though -- and Carver shudders all over and sobs a little as he understands.  Bethany.  That was real.  Memory.  Gentle fingers press into the area around his implant, sending more of that lovely coolness into him -- and he jerks away from them, frightened by the memory of colder, sharper-nailed fingers.

     "Shhh, shhh.  You're safe.  I'll never hurt you, Carver; I swear this.  Be at ease."

     _I'm easy_ , he thinks, and giggles.  _That's me, choicest ass in the Traverse._   It doesn't make any sense, but he feels as if it should be funny.  Oh, well.

     But something has changed, as he finally becomes aware of his surroundings.  A bed.  His quarters on the _Justice_.  Someone holds him.  Carver twists around quickly.  If it's her --  But it's Cullen.

     Cullen looks exhausted.  He's glowing, too, and -- Carver stiffens as he realizes Cullen's wrapped them both in his aura.  "The fuck are you -- "

     "Saving your life," Cullen says.  He sounds exhausted, too, and doesn't sit up, though he keeps one hand on Carver's arm.  They're both down to bodysuits, spooning like lovers, and Cullen's stripped Carver's down to the waist so that he can get at Carver's back and neck.  His other hand's still there, fingers massaging around the implant, his biotic aura modulating in infinitesimal ways to pull Carver's signal projection back into alignment and absorb harmful wavelengths.  Carver shudders, but it's good.  He feels better.  Even though Bethany --  He grimaces.

     "The resonance," Carver starts to warn -- but even as he does, he realizes something's different.  Ah.  Their link's been broken, and that's reset everything between them.  With enough time and probably a couple of battles, Carver will be back to where he was, trying to climb out of his skin for sex, but for the time being, he's back to normal.  Nice not to feel like a bitch in heat.

     "Doctor's orders," Cullen says, reaching up to pull him back down.  Carver goes, mostly because he can't think of anything else to do.  Cullen's biotics are soothing on his skin, reverberating faintly along his nerves.  He sighs, relaxing in spite of himself.

     "Right now you can't resonate with anyone," Cullen explains.  "Your implant wasn't damaged, but its signal and volitional subroutines were... overridden.  You resisted, but it's the same as with any circuitry; pour enough power into it, and eventually it simply burns out.  You were on the brink."  Cullen grimaces a little.  "The doctor had a more technical explanation, something about quantum subspace signals indicating an external power source on her part... but the gist is that your sister tried to force you to anchor her again.  And she nearly killed you in the process."

     Yes.  Carver shuts his eyes against the pain.  This time it's not from his implant.

     "I seem to be able to... repair you," Cullen says.  He blushes a little.  "The doctor said that it was harmless, at least until I have you back to rights.  That whatever I'm doing to you is actually more than standard medicine is capable of.  It only works -- "

     "Between resonance matches.  Yeah."  Carver lies there, limp, letting Cullen do whatever he wants.  He's tired of always having to be the expert.  Let Cullen take over for a while.

     "You know of it?"

     Fuck.  "Bethany.  She used to do it to me.  When we were kids."

     Cullen, thankfully, falls silent at this.  It's too late, though.  Now Carver remembers everything.  What happened at the pirate base wasn't just a dream.  They lie together in the cold artificial light of the Justice, wide awake and still aching from their wounds, and Carver can no longer deny the truth.  Bethany betrayed him.  The knowledge makes him curl up tighter, not to pull away from Cullen but because that's what you do when you've lost a fight, curl up and tuck your head in so nothing too vital will get hurt.  Only this time the hurt is _everywhere_ , the hurt is _inside him_ , and he has no sodding clue what to do about that.

     Cullen seems to understand, at least.  He moves with Carver, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him closer, still sending those gentle, soothing waves of energy through him.  Carver shakes his head in denial, but the hurt must have an outlet.

     "She's dead, isn't she?  Really dead, not just..."  Carver sucks in a breath.  It feels like he's drowning.  Cullen does something, sends some kind of little pulse through him, and then it's somehow easier to breathe.  "She's _been_ dead.  I thought I'd been wrong, prayed it wasn't true, but... she died on Ostagar.  That thing isn't her.  It might be her body but there's something else, some other mind, in it.  She knew what I was hoping and she fucking _played_ me.  I just wanted her back.  More than anything.  And she knew that, and used it to tear me up."

     And then Carver runs out of words.  But what is there to say, really?  That the entity which wears his sister's face and has weaponized her smile is a monster?  That Bethany died in agony, everything she believed in subverted by the things that have taken her?  He will never forget it.  Never forgive himself for failing her.

     And now there's nothing he can utter except sobs, and nothing he can feel but anguish, and nothing he can do with himself but go fetal and weep for the sister he's lost all over again.

     Cullen holds him tight, murmuring soft prayers from the Chant into his ear, and continuing to send that healing strength into him until he sags into sleep.  Thankfully this time, there are no dreams.

     When he wakes, Cullen's sleeping, too -- and his biotics have gone quiescent.  Does that mean Carver's healed?  Carefully he extracts himself from Cullen and heads into the bathroom.  In the mirror Carver stares at himself.  There's a smear of dried blood, someone else's, on his cheek.  Hollows around his eyes and under his cheekbones; he probably used up lots of stored calories to fend off Bethany's takeover attempt.  He's like a biotic after full burn.  At least Cullen's been taking care of him the way an anchor should.

     He eats an energy bar and takes a shower and manages not to break down weeping beneath the hot spray, just.  Good for him.

     When he's dry he heads back into the bedroom and stares down at Cullen's sleeping form.  Cull's probably exhausted.  Resonance repairs don't take a lot out of biotics -- it helps them, in fact, by making the anchor link work more efficiently.  Still, Cullen has fought his own battle today.  A lot of biotics unanchored at his stage are traumatized by the horror of it, never quite trusting their senses or instincts again.  It can hamper their development.  Cullen seems fine, but then, he's been through worse.

     As Carver stares down at the man, not really thinking about anything, Cullen stirs and opens his eyes, blinking up at Carver and blushing a little at his nudity.  Sodding Chantry boy.  But he sighs and rubs his face.  "Do you need anything?  Are you feeling better?"

     Suddenly, Carver knows exactly what he needs.  He slides into the bed and pushes Cullen over onto his back.  "Yeah," he says, and bends to kiss him.

     Cullen stiffens at this -- though he does not pull away, Carver notes, and his mouth is soft despite the surprise.  When Carver sits up, Cullen's staring at him, and Carver thinks he's going to have to launch into some tedious explanation.  Armchair psychology.  Five-minute morality.  Sodding Chantry boy.

     But then Cullen reaches up and cups Carver's head to pull him back down.  After a second, more thorough, tasting of Cullen's mouth, Carver is hungrier, sliding a hand up to part the seam of Cullen's bodysuit, willing him to be willing.  It's not the resonance effect.  This is a different kind of need.  _Please don't talk_ , he thinks at Cullen, knowing it's impossible.  Cull's a talker.

     But to Carver's surprise, Cullen sits up and yanks his bodysuit open, shrugging it off his shoulders.  Then he twists them about to put Carver under him.  Hello.  Then he slides his hand up to cup Carver's head and holds him still for another kiss.  It's deeper this time, sweeter, hotter.  Like that kiss in the corridor after Cull's first charge; this one's edged with sorrow instead of elation, but the need to vent emotion in phyiscality is the same.  Carver clutches at him, wanting skin under his fingers, wanting that mouth elsewhere, and of course Cullen doesn't dither.  He shifts again, his teeth grazing Carver's throat while he holds himself up enough to shove Carver's legs apart.  He has to pull away to shuck the suit off completely; Carver groans in frustration, sitting up to caress any available part of him, wanting him too much to wait.  Then Cullen's got him down again, this time pinning Carver's hands above his head while he laves circles around Carver's nipple with his tongue.

     Fucking _Maker_.  It's frantic and thrilling and amazing, everything that Carver's been craving for weeks -- but better, somehow.  Just desire, and not the ferocious demand of resonance.  Just flesh and heat.  Just Cullen's fingers readying his arse, working in and out while sheathed in biotic energy, which seems wrong but is somehow absolutely fucking perfect.  Just Carver arching beneath Cullen's weight, pleading wordlessly for more.  Cullen does not deny him, rutting against him until they're both gasping.  More.  Carver lifts his legs, wraps them around Cullen, willing him to --  oh fuck _yes_ , and now Cullen's in him, deep and sweet, at fucking _last_.

     Then all is rocking and breathing and sensation, and Carver thinks he's going to die when Cullen lets go his hands so that he can reach between them and massage Carver in time with his thrusts.  Freed, Carver wraps himself around Cullen, eyes shut, legs pulling and arms tight and fingers digging into a broad, sweaty back, and it's perfect.  He's lost in Cullen's soft pants of effort and his own groans and the slick slide of flesh into flesh.  He's going to come from the sounds alone.  He's -- _shit_ \--

     Shit.  It's beautiful.

     And when it's done and Carver's stopped whimpering through his teeth, while his body still rings with the relief of coming all over himself, Cullen lifts his hips a little higher.  For a blistering eternity Carver drifts in bliss, loving the hard driving rhythm of Cullen's rising excitement, until finally Cullen makes a high strained sound and pulls out and spills himself in a quick scatter over Carver's skin.  It feels like a blessing.  And when Cullen falls onto him, breathing hard and all over sweat and chanting Carver's name like a prayer, it feels like absolution.  Carver nibbles at Cullen's shoulder, shuts his eyes, and lets himself not-think.

     After a while, Cullen sits up, his eyes roaming Carver's face.  Carver has no idea what he wants, but his gaze holds a hunger as deep as Carver's own hunger for flesh; he can see that.  Not good, that. What he's seeing in that gaze is way too intense for the casual-sex thing he asked for, way back when. What's in Cullen's eyes isn't casual, isn't safe, not at all. Carver doesn't want to think about this, however.  He does let himself reach up and stroke Cullen's cheek, marveling at how perfect he is, taking comfort in the astonishing tenderness that fills those hazel eyes which are usually so hard, and feeling something back that he isn't willing to admit might be love.  Because love fucking hurts, and he can't take any more of that.

     But for now, it's all right.  His sister's still dead and the world is still shit, but he's all right.  Cullen, perfect Cullen, has given him that.  "Thank you," Carver says.

     Cullen's eyes widen just a little, though a little frown also appears between his brows.  But he nods, and does not speak, and lays his head down on Carver's chest, which is exactly what Carver was hoping he'd do.  It's like Cullen knows what he's feeling, or something.

     They sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this whole thing is gonna just be one gigantic hurt-comfort fest.


End file.
